Apropos Of The Refugees...

CATEGORY

life

There is little left her

for ole death to lay claim:

swollen bellies…parched skins…

sunken anchored eyes—

held in hollowed cranial caverns;

In this fenced graveyard

of waning life…flies soar freely

depositing metaphoric maggots

in festering wombs of despair;

In this God forsaken haven

flames of hope dim

with the wrinkling nipples

of the breast of time—

emptying her hourglass:

Here…in this surveillance of life…

there’s no refuge—no refuge

for the refugees—just the ghosts

of freedom…whistling in the wind.