Mirage.

rage.

We have been raging for quite a while
But the paper stays blank
Because we can't seem to
Write anymore
Find our words anymore
Our inspiration lies dead
Like the dead men who
Inspire us
Like the men who don't
Words spread
Like our spread legs
With no sense of human touch
Just fingers we let in
But not the one who
Spreads the warmth
Of thick blood
Into our wombs
The wet in between my legs
On the tip of my nose
In the dead purple hollow
Of my eyes
Salt and thick blood
Tries to rage
How do we rage
When there's too much to rage about
Blood thicker than water
Blood thickened by all the
Sins we absorb that we commit against ourselves
Blood of our conscience
A chaos of red
The sun drips into the
Sky
But we only have eyes for
Airplanes
And shades of blue
Everywhere
The fingers
The numbness
The acquiescence
Of letting it all to remain blue
In the veins that stick like
Their sore thumbs
No rage
Between the black stars
Between my legs
Or the ones that
Try to burn red in
the ghosts of so many dawns
Lived lidless sleepless sightless
Rage turns our blood from
Red to a sickly moss
Snow peas and pine
Is green too
We need the blood orange
Of maple trees
Of lands that we can
Only hope the airplanes take us to
We might need you too
To rage about
Insignificance
Because the world
Is always raging raving
like a lunatic's haiku
Blood. Sex. Rage.
Summed up into
Blankness
In faces, expressions
Like a city sky too used to
Pollution and gulmohar pollen
Maybe life will come
And we will come too.
We will come, too.