Tuesday, January 24, 2017

Where is Ledha?

was it five years or ten or fifteen?
history didn’t bother to note
do you still have a lover? a mother?
they say your folks have left
and so have you
they don’t say where to
is it that easy to depart?
we’ll never know
there are places where postcards never reach
even rivers dry up in the face of hatred
songbirds forget Philomela
and wishing wells wish suicide
as we move, we move on
spewing venom and bullshit,
from one phenomenal hashtag
to another,
from one dusty manuscript
to another, from bright orange mornings
to pale saxophone nights –
cursed, by ennui and lacklove,
we move and we forget
like we have forgotten you

do you still see colours?
do you still dream dreams?

do you still breathe?