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  • Writer's pictureM.

Helia smiles

Updated: Aug 20, 2021

Photo by <a href="">Mourya</a> on <a href="">Unsplash</a>

Where am I?

A gallows rat in the tongueless streets

stumbling in the dark, crowd pushed

naked in a rough cape

a clasp doesn’t close

Nauseated whiffs of smoke, spit and saliva

the sky’s a dull black, far stars bewaring

the pale sickly moon, unyelding

to the floor she crumbles

Shipwrecked, feet wounded, on a wall

throat blocked. Spices, drugs and chains

the slave market exhales.

Her frail skin trembles

Someone looks and disgustedly leaves

her right eyes grouped by three

Fear stains and stinks

as her enemies seek she

Can nothing. Head too heavy, veins

clogged by stone. Pupils fleeing

rolling in the head bone,

senses senseless desiring.

Unknown hands grab her, as weightless

she flails, as broken doll jointless

and stupidly raves, (delirious)

but nobody cares.

Fire, if only, in fire I could be!

The cold, it maims and it kills me.

One in the many, shackled and wary,

she’s just ash in the wind.

Of incense a memory,

beneath market’s stink

Death begs, her mind losing the light

the stars staring guilty, until she rises

from straw smelling of piss.

Her eyes closed (by fists)

Drunkenly walks before the sunrise

wind blowing of distant sand wastes,

the desert, its hug

of heat endless

Light that bone whitens

light saint and saving

parts open the shadows

defies the horizon

it’s crimson and red and then yellow

it’s in her eye and the others

she finally breathes, cries,

laughing arms opens

to dawn.


she shines with the Sun

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