Thursday, 5 February 2015


The constant rain pouring
doubt like acid

Like a spear
(for the misfits and the core nucleus alike)
to topple any tyrant with

to dream a way through
and eat the concrete
of the throne of streets

and hide on the outside
where there still are
untrodden fields

and the trees grow
there, under the pouring doubt

Then and again
shrouded in static grey
cocooned and contorting
in petrified skin

that cannot but crack
and torrents of blood flow
in those ravines
that tear the land
a new face
every day.

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