milkprose

I am a delicate reader and therefore know nothing.

 Among other things, we have forgotten what it means to be at war.

The immune collective

Scatters in the wake of romanticized bloodshed,

The rising phoenix

Does not glow,

And the divine white bed

Smells of grass and vegetation, moments after a rainstorm.

The true battle brews in the tension

Between sovereignty and ordinary compassion.

A budding metamorphosis

My markings pulse, and pulse steadily-

The childhood and the dirty new age

Cling

The orchestra is washing over

We were never taught to swim without the masks.

Defeated and dark

There’s a stain now, on the bed 

It looks as if a chair sat on it