• brahmleen_ 27w

    I stand against the winds 
    harsh leaves correct the folded letters
    raw shovels, rotten mists, dying skins 
    seek to stand and breathe the
    clear cages


    Old walls tripping over the pale suns 
    dripping wombs of hope 
    blinking ashes burried neath
    packs of heavy peels
    coffins emerge


    Pungent gills of a slave poetry 
    beeps the feet rough and thick
    to find the puzzled barks 
    nipping under cold citywides. 

    βrαhmleen