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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Tenants
What of the world we call our own, it never has been.
Welcome to a land of sparrows, sheep and snow leopards
We invite you to a holy place where we live and kill to procreate
They let us in sardonically into their sanctum, we the shepherds
We walk in to take over their kingdom divine as if it were desolate.
Strategise our advantage, let’s kill one another over disputes and heartache
We survive in a taken land, with pride and honour,
Over boundaries that never existed, slowly killing ourselves with hate
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