Poetry

It was happening.
It was a perverse state,
one by one we were tearing apart,
our wholeness, our human heritage.

A distorted image of beautiful order.
We went assembling the torn limbs.
Each desire was sutured
like a wound, to become a scar.
It was a collective grief of history.

Abrasion of ‘me’, grotesquely
disfigures the face
of soft weightless peace.
Love has never been the same.
The little things have become
enormous ghosts trampling our senses.
Ugly scrawls are scaring.