15.03.2021
Thoughts on petty complexes that have started birthing from hypocrisy and inhibitions. Death of subjectivity.
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Inks source bullpens
With stories traversing petty elements
of pain
In disdain
We could do more
More to living life
Within cruel bindings
Of madmen seeking bricks
On a land of soil, turmoil
And specks
Blood is blud
Distances seen
Only at nuclear luxurious tents
Above and below
Innocents die
With questions unanswered
Living in a time
Bound by chains of havoc
Where turmoil is an art to live
To survive
To sustain
In the end,
To die
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