Gutless like a rotten fish
swimming in our
deep-fried dish
soaked with bleach and peroxide
a pure angelic white of
absolute nothingness
a true lack of emotion
reflected by our
lack of proper motion
when witnessing a cruel butcher
sever all the blood vessels
all the bonds we formed
with fellow beings like us
now where do we belong
how could we persist in this
hallway so oblong
so lightless, so scentless
when the more we walk
the more we see ourselves vanish
the true essence of our very being
deteriorating into white dust
molding into the very air
that is choking us, killing us
yet we are still alive, witnessing
the very ash made from us
With their filthy hands, they vanquish
the very identity of who we stand for
what we seek
does not align with their goals
for we are but walkers
of the roads they carved
using the hands of others, ripped away
from the battered, putrid bodies
of those blinded slaves
eyes stabbed with a blunt knife
melted into their molten graves
For we are but walkers
losing sight of who we are
the pupils of ours, whiteness
and our faces now featureless
as we march, coated in white
the cape to shield us from the
cremated soot of what remains
of who we are, of who we sought to be
yet, what follow us are the pains
of not even having scars to talk about
of no longer having stories to tell
as we embrace the snow that was
once us
we only speak about life that was
once ours.
YOU ARE READING
Nebula at Sea
PoetryThe journey of a man venturing into a world of insecurities, apathy, and strangeness. A story of growing up. A rhythm of escaping into the fantasy of the self. This is a collection of poetic stories through sufferings, hardships, and recovery. A rev...
