My country still churns poetry out of mutilated migrant labourers.The skeletal remnants of a metropolitan do not stir the nationโs conscience.Death lies snuggled in the palms of my state,destruction kneaded on the cold skies.Humans lie like scattered petals on roads and roofs.Artistic stimulation for some.Ghost buildings are standing like cardboard boxes,perforated by the needles of…
My mind is a graveyard where voices go to sleep. How do I tell you I am barren today?If satisfaction was not bought with a few clicks,I would have sailed too, like Odyssey and spit on his grave,named myself the only Queen of Ithaca. Haven’t I travelled to worlds far beyond?Haven’t I seen God in…