Tuesday, July 04, 2023

To Die For

The artificial aftertaste
of all that we are sold
assassinates my appetite
like bread that’s blue with mold
and maybe it’s just me,
but it’s really getting old
having it crammed down our throats
by those who kill for gold.


morfeas said...

Εξοχο Υπέροχο!!!

Η ποίηση σου είναι
ένας λαβύρινθος συναισθημάτων και λέξεων!

rch said...

😆 thanks a lot, since my hectic schedule forces me to keep it brief I try to pack as much as I can in each piece. Load every line with ore, something I read a long time ago in a book about poetry.