September 24th 2020

Within the walls they’ve built and between the overgrown vines there, here I am.

Coloured red and rosy, cracking with blacks and blues, I stand on the throne of evanescence,

And the fortress hides further.

It sinks beneath the ground, one inch more with every passing year,

They grow sideways there.

A dimension of poverty, of unlucky beggars, of terrified mothers, of animals unsightly

It smells of mould down there,

There is no light that finds its way, usually,

And when it does, it’s met with a filthy sheet of dust, sweat and tears.

People don’t hope here

There is none to be had here

Even their once glimmering eyes glaze over when they speak, like their lifeline of suppression has led to their caving, rotting organs.

These people have not born into a human body, but a zombie-like shell

To replicate an existence that god himself fears — hopelessness.

Do not come here on the reaping days

We lock ourselves inside and cut away the glass in our mirrors until we can collect the shattered ornaments.

We weaponize it.

We fable ourselves the riddance of our own skull and shame ourselves to death.

Do not come here.

To live down here is to live in the penance of the wealth, and to witness every complacent act when there was ever a choice.

We are the grieving ones.