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You wash in the flood of the tears of mothers.
We lay at your feet the broken bodies of children
And wrap you in the very skin of so many victims.

As you paint your face and hands in their blood
To add a million scalps to your beastly belt
You should not be called "leader", for you are not.

In time you will ultimately fail and you will pay
For when love prevails, evil shrivels and dies
In the dense darkness that was created for others.

Then you will take your final "perp" walk.
Watching the news creates an explosion of so much fodder.
We are still creatures,
bound by the rules of logic,
superficial commitments
boil the truth.
Make the jump,
but only with full grasp!
Am I losing important links?

Is it that my intuition
is screaming?
Or is it just dry envy
whispering
that I am too weak
to be so good?
Am I seeing something more?
Or was it just the usual nightmare?

The realm of values
and the physical world
is being distorted like
Dalí’s dream.

My nightly vision was so clear:
Something was absorbing
thoughts of human beings,
under smooth talks,
tender words.

They left the untouched bodies
and the skulls white.

All were made
to break down the structure
from the inside.
What are the hidden reasons,
on a small and larger scale?

We live by metaphors,
blindly believing
that the reason is still strong.
But some things only appear innocent,
shaping sharp rocks.
Clouds curl, bruised whispers
skies changing colors again—
nature twists like fingers on piano keys
I’m tangled in a corner of myself.

When your silence bites,
I don’t know if I’ll bare my teeth
or fold inward
like paper dolls collapsing
under summer rain.

We're floating in the space
between "stay" and "run,"
holding breath underwater—
neither surfacing nor drowning,
a little unsure of which we fear more.

You pull close,
then release,
moon cycles of embrace and retreat—
each goodbye echoing softly,
a note lingering, unresolved.

Escape calls louder than home;
running is my oldest song.
Yet your open palm
makes me pause,
hovering mid-flight,
just above your fingertips,
wondering
if gravity could hold me this time.
That fight or flight response...
The weeds in our garden
Grew as fast as the pile
Of your unreplied letters
Such a sad race to behold...
REPOST. Written in sep/24.
I have loved you
From the moment our eyes
Met across the crowded street
On that scorching summer day

And though summer
Soon came to a bitter end
I have loved you through
Every season ever since

And I guess I always will
I can count the
Freckles on your face
While your fingers can
Follow the pattern of the
Slashes on my back
I'm afraid you may take a while, though...
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