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