dry rosemary and regret
a shrine to what we swore
memories a sieve
echoes in an hourglass
we bury what we are
then dig up ghosts
and call them holy
the beast stumbles
over its own shadow
cracked
burdened by a truth
no knife can flay
dining at bountiful tables
exquisite place settings for the selves
we’ve damned
each sip a pact
each laugh a shard of glass
swallowed to prove we’re whole
decadence unspoilt
not in subtleties
a r e q u i e m . .
hummed by bureaucrats
a tax levied on the soul
planted in boneyards
where hope has gone to die
decay blooms in headlines
ink staining fingers
as we turn the page
Normalcy the alibi
of a world
learning to look away
What’s left when honour
crumbles into dust
when trauma cries
and has outlived our fables . ?
Perhaps the mirror cracks
and in its jagged breath
meets the orphaned self
stripped of metaphor
teeth bare
howling at the wind
Who's carved
these scars so deep
that the Pain
Became my Bones . ?
© mingoáo