This poem, it was said, went out looking for me
and so I wrote it.
Laid it out.
Thick and fast.
Then I spoke it.
Said it would
open up to me.
Unfurl the very shell
it parades as self.
This poem gave this line to me;
spit in my eyes to help me see.
This poem’s a cold melody.
A slow symphony of rifles
that sees bullets run ahead of me.
Clicking and tapping,
tripping and crumbling
to the a capella of falling bodies
ebbing and flowing,
moving and dying.
This poem, when we met,
would show itself to me.
Stretch the limbs out.
Uncurling the verses into
the stanza you see.
And then
screaming and wailing
breathing and dying.
A line.
This poem birthed
a rhyme.
Namaste
