[the most human thing to do is to try becoming something other than human]
How is it we are | yet to evolve past victims | and villainous shapes? | it seems even phantasms | are black-and-white in demise .
1.
A false openness,
painted over a bottle --
I detest in you,
sickly sweet honey sunset
shown in low resolution.
2.
Can't you see I'm not
lured by your scrolling banner?
Caged by no colour,
my icons are silent nights:
I am a boat amidst noise.
3.
After bomb-decades,
you still cannot leave me be,
seeming pathetic,
I bleed pity like roses
in barbed wire thorn bushes.
Maybe it's nature | that we only talk static | poison, inner thought | distance is a shapeless star | constellations are pipe-dreams .
Gender:
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