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The sky is on fire,
and the world holds its breath.
It bleeds out in streaks of crimson,
fingers of flame
licking the edges of clouds,
leaving behind ash that the wind cannot carry away.

It doesn’t scream.
No, it only burns
in silence,
a slow, tender rage,
as if the heavens themselves
have grown tired
of holding the weight of the stars.

We watch from below,
a chorus of small prayers
wrapped in our own fragile skin.
Some of us still believe in rain,
in the mercy of the dark,
but tonight,
the fire is too bright,
too wild,
too beautiful
to look away from.

The sky is on fire,
and I wonder if this is how
the end begins—
a blaze too beautiful to escape,
too hot to be touched.

We hold onto the night,
our hands trembling with the heat,
knowing,
somehow,
that this fire does not care
if we burn with it.

The sky is on fire,
and all we can do
is watch
as it consumes
the last of the light.
I’ve been sprinting through this life, caught in a whirlwind of urgency and strife, weaving through congested streets just to reach the sanctuary of home.
Trying to keep grinding, though my destination is unknown.
The grind never ceases; I push forward until exhaustion grips me.
Yet, I rise again, for stopping is not an option.
Barely making ends meet, where is my antitoxin?
I pour every ounce of my being into this life, striving to carve out a place for myself.
Trying to tell myself that my dreams will someday be taken off their self-imposed shelf.
I’m stumbling, balancing precariously on this tightrope of ambition.
Don’t falter; don’t gaze down.
The drop won’t seem so daunting if you don’t mind the sound.
Gasping for air, I gather my strength to face it all once more.
I crave tranquility, peace of mind.
Struggling through the chaos, it’s hard to find the time.
I need to be my own anchor, be my own best friend.
After all, that’s all we possess in the end.
Suddenly, in the chaos of it all, a voice like an angel pierces the veil of the struggle.
Tears flow, my silent release from the weight of this existence, a small reward for all of my persistence.
The music begins, its melody enveloping me completely, every note hanging in the air so sweetly.
All my pain is unlocked, and my soul breathes a bit, and for a moment, there is nothing but the moment of this song.
A moment in time I stole from this heavy world, all of my resistance…silently unfurled.
-Rhia Clay
i.

let's give pakistan money
to nuke india.
never a higher mountain than trash.

the Western world needs this to happen,
both are a problem,
but one more populated than the other.

looking for a job lately?
there is so much to be said for colonization.
india says everything.

india amazon selling bottles of cow ****,
either (don't) accept it or drink it,
do you really want to drink it?

some days are over,
we have learned too much, we see and see and cannot stop seeing.

ii.

too much loneliness
a number that stays zero
dreams that have nowhere left to travel
the times, they are so bare

the way hope expels
for good,

the king of England
wears a tablecloth on his head
his kingdom, his country, a gutted intestine
it is very crowded there

all the king's countrymen &
all the good places to go
disemboweled
third world kneels in parasitic prayer

***** garbage on the ground, ***** garbage all around
the way hope expels
for good,
it is no small tear
To all muslims and hindus who have attempted to take stake in the Western world: you have shown the world who you are;  you are not compatible with us, you ruin everything you touch. your countries are proven to have an IQ of below retardation.  Western countries have and will continue to acknowledge this. Get out while you still can. You are in our countries because your countries have failed and have proven yourselves completely incompatible with our countries and completely incapable of proving your worth to us. You are not capable of sustaining anything livable and will never be. You are cursed by your own pride.
Swaying, to an electronic beat.
Hallucinogenic mushroom treat.
Blissed out youth in easy grace,
dancing in a limbic space
in their comfy border town--
have no idea what’s going down.

But there will always be disorder
if you choose to paint Hell’s border
while you live on the other side--
a created,  artificial divide.
Heaven and Hell will soon collide.
"challenge you to write a poem that involves music at a ceremony or event of some kind"
Deep down, from the river, from the black earth
From Mississippi mud to Chi town streets
Slow, and rhythmic, ****** beats.
A man stands,  late to his own show,
and declares to the audience below
that he is a Man. Spelled M, A, N.
We believe. His mastery,  presence,
husky voice. The essence
of Man. And what the men don’t know–
the little girl understands. It’s my first show
without my parents. My brother's there.
A man sitting near us shoots up–I stare,
as smoke of cigarettes and **** fills the air.
A packed crowd, eager to see
one of the last of the greats, history.
But no nostalgic, fleecing tour is this .
One of Muddy’s last is still at the top of my list.
He died five years later. It's still one of the best concerts I've ever seen. He only sang and didn't play guitar, but the back up band was great. Georgetown University, September 1978.
He had wings that
gave him flight.
The sun was
beautiful and bright.
It melted into the ocean.

But there is danger in
flying too low as well,
just ask the mermaids in
the depths of hell.
The seawater screws
up the lift.

Fly to safety and
peace,
not the
fantastical or
far-fetched.
You don't need to
have it all.
Beware of

too

much



ambition.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8k5NY8ZMx3I

Check out my YouTube channel where I read from my recently published books, Seedy Town Blues Collected Poems and It's Just a Hop, Skip, and Jump to the Madouse Poems, both available on Amazon.

www.thomaswcase.com
Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com
Dispatches for the Colonial Office

                     Did Civilians Write Poetry Back in the Day?

A medical professional, while taking my pulse
Asked me what I was reading
                                                 Poetry, I replied
Poetry of suffering in the Second World War
Most of it by civilians who were there

She asked:

Did civilians write poetry back in th’ day?

I changed the topic to my blood pressure



Second World War Poems
Ed. Hugh Haughton
London: Faber and Faber, 2004

This anthology is brilliant, with poems by soldiers, civilians, concentration camp prisoners, and prisoners of war from many nations. Several of the poems are anonymous, written on scraps of paper found on the bodies of the murdered. There is much fashionable babble about my voice / our voices / authentic voices / my people’s voices, and so on, but here is a fine collection by people whose voices were desperate to tell the truth, not indulge in self-pity, and find beauty among the horror
SECOND WORLD WAR POEMS, Ed. Hugh Haughton
 Mar 17 ConnectHook
Aya
There is no ceasefire, not in Gaza, not in Lebanon, not in Sudan,
but only genocide...
aggression...
war...
blood...
slaughter, and pain.
The West Bank continues to be under siege... met by tanks, death,
threats...  
Families are met with bullets to their head.
The children are met with amputated limbs.
Children are left orphan... and forgotten.
Communities are met with too many martyrs to grieve...
Where is this ceasefire now?
There is bombardment in Yemen too, directed by the West like a true imperialist.
If one dare to rise up and resist, are met with an iron fist by the international colonizer community, given consent to **** with no impunity...
Dare the amputees speak....
Dare the bullet to the head speak...
Dare the orphan speak....
Dare the resistance speak of their own pain...
There is no ceasefire, but only genocide.  
Where is this so-called ceasefire now?
Nowhere in sight....
Where is the anti-war movement?
Nowhere in sight.....
What happened to the anti-war movement?
Nowhere in sight….
I felt the power
Of the disappointment,

And the resentment,
And the emptiness,
Slowly dissipate.
The Holy Spirit
Overshadowed it all
And took a deep breath
In my chest.
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