Song of the Slave

You aided me.

In miracle manufacturing

Like a feeling machine

I authored your verse and voiced your songs.

I reaped gold and green

From your arid fields

Sterile fury of your fading affections; and

The torment of fake love were poetry.

You unintentionally gave

Uncooked foed for thought

Just pure wonder;

I usually cook over my own slow fires

But your hungers were ferocious,

My Master, dine with me

When your magic spoon touches my food

It becomes stone hard, marble cold

Let’s feast on this bitter miracle

Then fall asleep

With an empty mind and stomach.

This impotent wrath

Condensed and frozen

Is the delicious dessert

And the perfect fruit after the feast

Ready and ripe to be devoured; Poetry!



I washed my face,

Till the skull showed itself,

You didn’t wait for the brain.

I washed my body,

Till the bone cage showed itself,

You didn’t wait for the heart.


Someone had once stolen your rib

To create me by a strange distortion of it.

You were eager to claim the lost asset,

So didn’t wait for the heart to sing

It’s song of parting,

From a cage suddenly devoid of bars.


Now after the vengeance,

What remains?

Wild freedom of two hands and legs


A womb now reduced to an empty begging bowl.

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