Slavery, decapitated.

under the torn and dirty nails
of immortal’s hand –
splinters dig deep,
tear long gashes
into the blinded’s bloody eye
while pus and tears
make a paste
on soot-stained bodies.

when squirming
and crawling
isn’t sufficient,
it is time
to wake
the warrior within.


do your own words
ever disgust you
while you write them?

like opening up
a can of rotten fish,
stinking to high heaven.

do you ever
wish you could
shut that door
you opened –
seal it
because what you see
turns your stomach?

i can rinse my mouth
i can wash my hands
but i cannot
wash my thoughts
out of my mind.

photo credits: