Faces beneath black gas masks,
Wilting flowers in place of hearts
Bodies that are bowstrings,
Arrows that are actions
There is no way to win
With ourselves,to win ourselves
Our own compassion
There is no forgiveness in the cities
Painted the colour of ash
Burning landscapes of the mind,
The smell of blood,a rainfall of feathers
on heaps of bones,then,
on heaps of bones,then,
the sky stares back,unblinking,as soft as snow
There is no light,only glimpses of darkness,
Mellow and empty
A skeleton weed of a tragedy
There is no mirage in this desert
It runs as dry as the fight inside us
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