Poetry

You were not a god―
in panic, seeking an asylum
with two little hands
holding a golden book.

There was a potential
threat of complete annihilation
from the foul writing on the walls
with spurious titles.

A political blitzkrieg
takes place in glass dome,
drawing out bad blood,
from healthy limbs.

Where would you go, now
in dark? Fleeing from the violence
of men, being migrant without
a temple at the end of the earth.