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I threaded their words – piece by piece,
trying to connect the loopholes
to sew a fabric of remedy.
I gather the massive piles of conflicts;
to soak them in a basin of comprehensive detergents,
letting the stains of redundant mistakes
be washed away from the ruins of veracity,
but they vanish.

Was their existence a mere hallucination?
Or was I blinded by immunity brought
by those issues’ constant repetition?
The words didn’t disappear.
They’re here. They’re real.
They are engraved deep within my soul.
Because I can feel the blood dripping,
like waterfalls from the cuts of
clashing words in my belly,
slowly birthing rotten fruits of disunity,
impregnated by a toxic family tree!

GREG RAKOZY ALEX BOYD

 

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