it feels like
time cannot pass through these layers of agony
it sits heavy and stagnant,
a fertile soil for the bones of grief
how much patience does the pain have?
this question haunts me,
it waits like Schrödinger’s cat in the rubble
both a memory and a looming threat
simultaneously in my chest and there in the mud
nobody listens to our bodies' protests and pain
violence is not a distant country
the television screens bleed into the carpet
while we are ****** in the stillnes of sofas
it is as if we are in fact watching
the slow erosion of souls
hunger is a parasite, it eats the future before it happens
in the middle of hunger, the bullet is almost redundant
for any child this is catastrophy: the step between
the cradle and the ruble or the ruble of childhood
they are suddenly grounded by the weight of
their own nothingness
in the logic of bombs, they are the same thing:
a target. a mistake. a silence.
nobody listens to the blood of the innocent
time doesn't pass through layers of concrete & bone
some are turned into the smoke of the strike
others into the hand reaching from the pile
or into the nothingness that fills the chest
of a survivor