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BRING VIOLINS NOT VIOLENCEviolins Children suckling from nipple- chopped breasts. Mothers grieving under the heavy yoke of sorrow. Weeping! Faces scarred by machetes ‘blood signatures. Violence! Souls carrying wet bags of vitriol and rucksacks of vendetta. Hearts yearning for the cuddling touch of love. Alas. Morons have swallowed their hearts and sealed their consciences in cemeteries of disgrace. Ego, chauvinism, dictatorship. Triplets sired by rat -brained King Patriarch and his Queen barbarism. Hyenas! Jackals! Father sing. Sing sweet lullabies now, not scorching insults. Bring on violins not violent tunes .Children yearn for new songs .New lullabies. New violins. Peace songs. That mother’s bitter tears will not drown the peace of nights and douse the flames of beautiful dawns. Bring violins not violence.
Thank you again to all contributors. It is a journal of diversity in age, gender, cultures, style and voice. For submissions check our Facebook groups, pages and timelines. You can email the Curator or Editor at miombopublishing@gmail.com.

MAGODO
CATHERINE MAGODO MUTUKWA is a rising literary arts luminary, award winning author and advocate of the women’s rights. Her poetry, her stories and articles express her deeper and inner respect for the girl child. Her story BROKEN VESSEL was recently adapted into a film in Zimbabwe. The powerful versifier and storyteller continues to mesmerize with her refreshing but heart chopping verses and stories . Mutukwa’s books are vastly reviewed by the Zimbabwean media both online and in print . Magodo Mutukwa is regularly profiled in the Herald Newspaper and in the http://www.personalitiesofinspiration.wordpress.com blog journal. Magodo is a word carver of global acclaim. Her poetry and stories are used as educational and awareness catalysts by women and girl child organizations around Zimbabwe and Africa.

SILENCE HUMS…
Despair in the heart
rises to the brain
where I pace the floors of
my locked mind
‘n’ my pen silent…
searching for the right words.
The earth has bent thy brethren
beneath the heavy load called
life
Oh! Cry my beloved homeland
there’s nothing left to write home
about
‘cept to cry for the children of thy
motherland
lost in the fog of forgotten
dreams chasing the
‘merry~merry’ days of
celebrations,whispering silent
prayers hoping to go back and
bask in the glory of victory once
more,
while running away from the
pained-sting of betrayal
of things perched on the soul…
of half-spoken matters on
emotions too grave to mention.
Still thinking,I could end here,
I remember, the ghastly emptiness
of mothers whose insides
reflect something indefinable
taken out the day they were
forced to spit out farewells to sons
somewhere out there,
I wonder about the tyranny of time
the brutality of forced change in
changing seasons
‘n’ flashes of faces of the fathers
haunt me
whose loins are cursed, whose
seed knows no peace choking on
long strings of disappointment
frothing at the mouth with anger
mingled with bitterness
Ah-h! anger…bitterness…
disappointment…
the legacy left behind for those
who offer no song or prayer to
appease those in the winds.

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NANCY NDEKE –
Ndeke Nancy is an accomplished poet and an published author of long fiction and poetry from Nairobi, Kenya. She loves nature. Her greatest passion is in reading while at the same time writing poetry.

ACCROSS THIS RIVER,

And the ancient bridge,
Firewood collects an old soul,
To cook the leftover dreams,
Of a past that won’t stay so,
Lads scheming conquests,
Elders fury of diminishing libidos,
News flash of failed harvest,
A child cerebrating a broken tooth,
Political music of midnight bakeries,
Swift runs the pregnant waters,
Color brown beats the odds to rape the hills,
Everywhere nothing reigns,
Trees watch the doves mate skip,
Hallowed be thy name a deaf man weeps,
Trains and trams taking jokers to poker games,
Life waits for none,
Life spurs the sun on unchecked,
Yesterday refuses to bath,
It’s stench overwhelming,
Viral scratch eats the faith of the hopeful,
Far away where salvation waits,
Gongs sound alarms of packaged disaster,
Fire cooks for death to eat,
Hunger is most kins middle name,
The rest are nameless tittled clans,
Those that decide your fate,
In laudable papers Laden with brilliant intentions,
To hoodwink the fool to wet his lips,
Waiting for what comes not,
And death kindly settles the two scores,
The denied and the one denying,
Are finally baptised by un-emotive death,
Only you cross the river today,
And him, tomorrow,
The vanity story of men of wisdom,
That in our pettiness,
We have refused to know.

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CHRISPAH MUNYORO

SQUASHED DREAMS

Clouded looks brewing cyclone
Smiles transformed into sneers
Voices booming with a clap of lightning
Shrivelling, the beauteous lassie jumpy as a mouse
Physiologically tattered while still sprightly
Affection turned into an emotional wrecked battlefield
Bricks tearing laces into tatters
Voices unlocking stuffed shattered dreams and brains
Is this affectionate, so scorching,shocking and soul breaking?
Today you kiss me tenderly
Whispering how you always miss me
You need me
You hate me
You caress me
You harass me
Verbally abusive, designing a ring of blows
Hailstones of rage leaving chaos
I clearly fail to perceive your chameleon DNA
Do you have any remorse you boo?
Or you feel macho by being a bull

 

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NGOZI OLIVIA OSOUHA is a Nigerian poet/writer/-thinker, a graduate of Estate Management with experience in Banking and Broadcasting. She has published over one hundred and fifty poems in over thirteen countries and featured in over twenty international anthologies.
She has published three poetry books and coauthored one, they are THE TRANSFORMATION TRAIN, LETTER TO MY UNBORN, SENSATION and TROPICAL ESCAPE respectively. She writes hymns, psalms and has numerous words on the marble. All her books are record breakers.

WOLVES

Wolves
Carnivorous, Cancerous, contagious
Dangerous, dubious, unconscious,
Pompous, curious, porous,
Ridiculous, callous, rigorous.

Wolves,
Satanic, barbaric, epidemic
Tragic, acidic, logic, magic.

Wolves,
Sadist, rapist, antagonist
Racist, sexist, cultist.

Wolves,
Ghosts, beasts, skeletons
Spirits, gods, deities.

 

THE GIRL CHILD
Posterity preys on her honesty
Adversity turns her university,
Calamity makes her a property
Generosity gets her thirsty,
Deity drags her to insanity
And Royalty stamps her loyalty.
Obstacle hinders her miracle
Oracle hangs her on pinnacle
Shackle breaks her ankle
Buckle raped by uncle.
Necessity forces her to promiscuity
Immobility attacks her velocity,
Deformity annuls her conformity,
Hostility cancels her hospitality
Animosity scrapes her suitability
And imbecility captures her faculty.
Shabby, she always looks
Crooks bear her baby,
Moody she always cooks
Books, she does not study.
Scarcity brings her to mediocrity
Barbarity detests her flexibility,
Quantity sags her quality
Inequality destroys her vicinity
Impunity mars her positivity
And Uncertainty awaits her formality.
Coil is her oil
Boil is her spoil
Foil is her toil
Moil, on the soil.
#SAVE THE GIRL CHILD
DEDICATED TO ECOWAS, AU, EU, UN, WHO, UNICEF, NGOs, GOVERNMENTs AND EVERYONE
THE BLACK TONGUE
Your sandals are scandals
Your mails are blackmails
Your words are swords
Your toes are foes
Your fingers are tigers
And your legs are pegs
Your craft is witchcraft
Your cake is snake
Your care is snare
Your arm is harm
Your alm is charm
And your time is crime.
Your stitches are witches
Your despatches are patches
Your joke is smoke
Your tattoo is taboo
Your want is pant
And your portion is abortion
Your meditation is assassination
Your part is mart
Your flight is fight
Your ring is sting
Your make is fake
And your life is knife.
Your brotherhood is falsehood
Your lip is whip
Your friendship is gossip
Your vision is division
Your boot is loot
And your boom is doom.
Your fame is shame
Your answer is cancer
Your wig is pig
Your bread is head
Your lunch is punch
And your wave is grave

 

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TRACY YVONNE BREAZILE TRACY YVONNE BREAZILE is the current Mentor in Residence of the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Movement Online Writers Mentorship Program, Breazile is a poet living in the south eastern part of the United States. Peace is her passion. She is currently working on a collection of poetry echoing culture and customs of Africa. This work includes definitions and examples of various forms and functions of poetry as it has evolved through the ages. It is her hope that freedoms of speech encompass the entire globe. She would like to help people voice their feelings and attitudes about

MISERY

He called me
like a castle without his Queen
and his demons found me
they danced like fairies in their flight
as my emptiness filled them, thrilled them
empty smiles and late night wars
…own me…
his demons dance, as he holds me

ANGST

Take all these bonds from that line to this…
To quiet this mind of those thoughts unkind
And give to the wind all this sorrow.

Beast of burden gently bleeds on this page
The rod and tension pulled taught
And all these bonds from that line to this

And clear the path of confusion
Let the silent screams shout the disillusion
And give the wind all this sorrow.

To take the cloak and dagger from the shadow
Shed light of the true colors of the drama
And all of these bonds from that line to this
Draw the dilemma in this page of letters
Take the lonely night to touch the stars
And give the wind all this sorrow.

And breed the dreams to gaze and ponder
What a wonderful world, and put tomorrows
And all these bonds from that line to this
And give the wind all my sorrows

kamau

PATRICK KAMAU is a graduate in literature and special education from Kenyatta University. He hails from Murang’a County in Kenya. Currently he is a special education teacher. Kamau loves reading, making friends and writing poetry. His dream is to publish an anthology in collaboration with other likeminded poets.

HARBINGER

Harbinger
Am a bird,
I sing for my country
Have flown far and wide
Lowlands and Highlands
In tumults and jubilations.

They clipped others,
Wings cut to size
Chained their souls
Wretched in the darkness of Hope
In shrouds of mystery
I sing for my country.

Siblings deaths fore planned,
Measured livelihood in scales
The disciples of death yonder
An orchestra of fanaticism
Worshipping and genuflecting them
We the minions-
Them, the knights
Domiciled in cocoon of mirage.

Am a bird,
A harbinger of the times
Like a bull they fatten
Slaughtered by a harmattan wind
The gotten loot to the plaintiff.

Am a bird,
A harbinger of the minions-
Awakening the desire
To plant and harvest
To reap and eat
To die in honour
A harbinger of Justice
A dawn of liberty!

PAIN
Why do you treat me so?
A woman who you fought for
A lover you cried for
Crossing crocodile infested rivers
Sung a lot of sweet nothings!

Why do you wrestle me?
Brutally tearing my attires
Breaking the wares
Trampling on my food
Like a mad bull charging?

Why do you bruise me?
My pain your pleasure
A sadist satiated
My blood pacifying you
A malevolent beast!

Why do you forget?
The many nights together
The siblings sired together
A confidante
Your consortium!

Leave me to be
A free woman
Desirous to live
A free bird-
Liberty from malevolence
Liberty from chauvinism!

 

edm

EMMANUEL DOUGLAS MULOMOLE was born on 8th December 1994. He is a conscientious poet, avidly quotable writer, story writer and Life advice writer. He is from Africa, Southern part which is Malawi as his country. Many of his poems have been published on national and international website and some of her poems have also been published on international anthologies. He has won many awards from international poetry forums

“SPEAK SPEAK” (Women And Girls of Resilience)

Speak up, speak up as the new songs
Songs of divulging all the grim wrongs
As to make the publicity hearing them
That women, girls facing with the problems
Of evincing much against the women, girls
Rape, calling bad names, sex harassment

Speak out, speak out as the brave ditties
Of leading the cries of women, girls to be heard
As this society the women drowning in river of pain
Pain of calling the tears because of pure violence
Violence of quelling all the women’s rights
Violence of demolishing all the girl’s futurities

Speak loud, speak loud as the lofty warning
Of posting a verisimilitude of profound truth
That against our beautiful women and girls
Are truly motif of inhumane, criminal, evil
Let us stop the gender based violence
As a verisimilar power of giving a fully freedom

Speak now, speak now as a beautiful tune
Of calling a togetherness that together we can
Displaying a placards and voicing an awareness
For singing together a profoundest song
In these or those societies or communities
Stop gender based violence against women and girls.

 

 

 

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WAISON WILSON TINOTENDA, A protestant poet, prose writer, contributor in Brave voices, The Zimbabwe we want poetry journals. A human rights activist too as well as a blogger as Lowlifediarist. The founder of Deem literature organisation. A critic and analysis.

DAUGHTER’S YEARNING

Mama Afrika we mourn of today’s tragedies
Brothers by the bridge, in darks awaiting for
Her innocence to devour and rob in revulsion
Perversely done with a knife to her neck too.
Brutal touches on her soft skin, bloody scars…

Mama Afrika we mourn of today’s tragedies
Fathers in deems, mothers strangled in visage
So savagely done and she spat upon portals is
The bloody saliva from her cavities stains all
And impetuous we suck from her bitter breast

Mama Afrika we mourn of today’s tragedies
Mutilated with blunt blades, victims of systems
Rinsed circumcisions, blood gushing to wash…
Away our liberties and we to dance even, this
discordantly stroked drums, cultural heritage

Mama Afrika we mourn of today’s tragedies
The absurdity crafted yet inherited repressive
Ethics from roots. Ma Are we not humane?
Emancipation is our quest, empowerment too
From these social evils Ma… Amandla power

MY BELOVED DAUGHTER

Behind closed portals,I see her being molested
Tis bondage as she can’t free herself from thee.
Terror hast brought disparities in her low life.
Resilient she might be keen on yearning extant

Spirited she is deeply rooted to the ethics of…
BaShona culture so repressive, Kugomera
Uripo chaiko mwanangu. And the rose wilts
From the vices crafted on, mongers lashed her

And she stood firm in her impetuous thoughts
Derived from the old ethos, that screen shame
In retaliation to these evils. Amandla daughter
In storms she shall reserve her humanity taken

Ceaselessly fight too for your space in forlorn
Citadels of perverse acts and misconducts wry
Alike an oasis that placids, never to wilt again.
My beloved daughter, shout Alloud, be heard…

 

 

theresa,.jpgTHERESA STROMNES,Poet and Activist  in South Africa

DO NOT TOUCH ME

Do not touch me.
Do not hurt me.
Do not strike me.
Do not look at me!

Angry voices inside my head.
Broken bones inside my body.
Destroyed emotions in my mind.
Empty footsteps left behind.

Do not touch me.
Do not hurt me.
Do not strike me.
Do not look at me!

Abolish my shame.
Hold my chin, hold it high.
Wipe off the blood.
Stroke my tears goodbye.

Do not touch me.
Do not hurt me.
Do not strike me.
Do not look at me.

My quiet will haunt you.
My space will destroy you.
Your hands will betray you.
The voices will know you.

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NKOSIYAZI KHAN KANJIRI is a South African based Zimbabwean poet of Ndebele Shona decent. He is second winner of Drama For Life National Online Poetry Contest held by the University of Witwatersrand in 2017. Nkosiyazi has poems published in Zimbolicious : An Anthology of Zimbabwean Literature and Arts Volume 3 and Eagle on the Iroko, an anthology published in Nigeria in memory of Chinua Achebe. His poems have also appeared in the Sunday Mail and The Standard, weekly Zimbabwean papers. Nkosie is a published short story writer too, with stories published in two short story collections; True Lies and Outside The Garden Of Eden.

LAMENTS OF MY MOTHER

I hate to know I am a path
Leading to memories residing
between my mother’s thighs.

When I ask mother
why she squints her eyes every time she sees me.
She says my face is home to hell

She says the place behind her eyelids
is littered with dreams she had
before meeting hell.

She says
She doesn’t want to see men’s footprints.
Because they are specks fire
leading to memories residing between her thighs.

A LESSON FROM MY MOTHER

I mastered the art of wearing my skin inside out
when my mother taught me
how to dry clothes on the washing line.
She said daughter, the sun is not good for your clothes,
It licks beauty out of them.
And you must know too,
Men’s eyes are suns shining to suck the beauty of your skin
Since I started wearing my skin inside out,

No men’s eyes have scotched my beauty.
But their words have stung my skin
They have left hanging stories whose scars
House tales I myself do not want to hear.
So I wear my skin inside out, to hide my scars
Lest the world calls me ugly.

 

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TATENDA TAKAENDESA is a 15 year old form 2 girl. She is a poet and has written more than 50 unpublished poems since she was around 12 years. She is a good debater and has won several prices for public debate. Tatenda wants to be a blogger. Her dream is to have her poetry published.

NO I.D

It hurts, to see you, talk to you
You were once there for her,
But you thought you could have a better life.
You left us right there, standing
You said you were coming back,
That daddy had to fix a few things
Where we the problem?

One month, two months
Same story, “daddy has gone
To finalize a few things.”
“Daddy’s at work.” She said,
Well at least to protect me from the pain.
I wrote letters, sent post cards, I mailed my heart
To only God knows where.

Then the day I saw him,
My body numb to the pain
Numb to the betrayal,
Then a hand, a familiar hand,
Holding me back.
I wanted to look away but I could not
His eyes fixed on me
He knew who I was but still looked away
No shock, no humiliation, just, motionless.
As if I was one chapter of his life coming back to haunt him
I was a forgotten remembered memory
I miss you, at one time I said bye, knowing you were coming back,
But now I know it was and is forever,
And it still hurts to say hie.

 

KHAN

SADIQULLAH KHAN SADIQULLAH KHAN is a gifted poet of immense insights and creativity. Writing on a range of subjects his themes are social, spiritual and politically aware. Looking the domains of day to day living, delving deep into the sufferings and joys he seems to be the voice of dispossessed and the vast majority of poor he passionately identifies, yet his art touches the high mark of existential writing, unique in style and composition, he appears to lead his own genre. He belongs to Wana, South Waziristan in Pakistan

A WAR -THAT IS

I had better need recalling
A battlefield, stupendous with cries of dead,
Mystified rage, blood-letting groves
Young men, for want of doing anything worthwhile
Broad chested, long bearded, earning fame
What had been taught, a Freudian interpretation
Killing, and three thousand bullets from the muzzle
Is self assertion, starting with a holy chant,
Returning victorious, men-like.

On the edges of the one, sleeping eternal wrath,
Leaving behind an array of war, he could do nothing
But sleep among them. His bones turning stones,
Underneath a tomb, I saw years later. The great
Soul, preached temperance, preached love
Non-violence, -a universal conspiracy, an American war.

The ignoble victory brought a self exiled perpetrator
Sitting cozy, eating boiled eggs, with fried bread.
On these paths, soldiers wearing big caps
Dragging their injured legs, by dry streams, dying
A remembered death, a daughter’s love, his wife
All belongings on her head, running to a camp
To die by a bullet, or by disease.

A one, who had been fighting his smallness
To turn big, swallow the world’s riches, hold all power
By the maximum, short-cut means, turning coats
Now and then, -a prototype, cunning, without any ideal
A soul, under-nourished, a heart to dominate, earn fame.
The man of the time, Buddha would have liked him
To convert, to save humanity, from the carnage.
Belatedly, from a perverse instinct, he penned
Butcher-axed, by the dictator’s side, abrogation of statutes.

The others and some turned to politics, wearing
Ropes, around their necks, chains under flowers
The civic society’s leaders, some generals, others
Content with having fought the holy war
And now, turned upon themselves, eating up
Fifty thousand and a few more hundred thousand
Flesh and bone, human beings. This is no times for wars
All wars, ended, and this war, shall never end.

Sadiqullah Khan
Islamabad
December 3, 2013.

An Iraqi boy is seen through the window of a mini bus targeted by roadside bomb.
Photograph by Ahmed Al Rubaye @ National

Geography.

 

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STAR OKPEH is a writer and Poet based in Abuja, Nigeria. A lover of Art, Beauty and Nature who has won online awards for Poetry. Formerly a Judge at Poetry Planet, Philippines and Author of The Dance Of Dawn.
ALARM.
Who can eat the rotting pie?
Whose taste lost; yet
Abiding in the mouth of the simple
Ad tagged the world as
The past century dwellers.
Though the cakes we are forced to eat
The palm oil soiled yam
As the pies of our fathers
Do out lips longeth for.
Yet lost from our hungry mouths
We still day dream our origin.
Who can tell the way of the drums?
Who can stir the pottage of our pot?
Where is the breast that feed this giant?
Weep and morn! Oh, women of the land
For the one we cherish
Let our hearts believe not
The hands of death on our beloved
For this only is a long sleep

 

BLESSING CHIGUNDA BLESSING. S CHIGUNDA an avid reader a recriminating voice demanding the rights of the oppressed proletariats, to be justly implemented. Stripping off the subterfuge of this oppressive government

SIPHONY LOVE
Relationship that lacks reciprocality
Outstands to be detrimental undeniably
Imbalance fraternity purported to be parasitic
Threatens the functions of the cardiac
Partial ammalgamation
Intended to benefits the covetous partner
Is but a mere huggling of erotic, passional interests against carnal materials
Rapport that flouts the devinely breathed principles of unmared LOVE
,smeared the commonly known statue of agape
Companionship, which its ephemeral intention
Is but depicted by syphonisation o of materials is constantly capsizing most novices who are in such a malignant relationship
Its neither the scarcity o kisses, embraces, fondling, romance leading to copulation which i starkly yearn for
But matchless love
Which doesn’t seek its own
The love that is concocted with the ingredients of trust, caring, commiseration and forgiveness
Is dearthly nowhere to be found under this squalid globe
Save only masquerading love
Sets innocent souls in labyrinth chronic
Until all.hearts yearns for perfected love
None will enjoy the fruits of love

michael

MICHAEL MWANGI MACHARIA is a poet based in the Rift Valley region, Kenya. He contributes literary and education articles to the Kenyan dailies. He is also involved in directing, adjudication of music and drama. He has developing interest in History, Fine art and photography

ODE FOR THE AFRICAN BEAUTY

Thou art beautiful woman
Your complexion
dark and mysterious
Making the bards sing
Since the times of yore
Inspiration to discerning kings.

Thy figure full and round
Because you have bounty
Confident in your stride
Noone can stray your way
The mother to many children
Who bask under the shadow
Of your unending maternal love-

Do not seek light
Do not seek to starve
To fit some glossy magazine cover
For you are the true pride
Of the one who picked you
From among the best
The pride of our land

 

ABOUT BRAVE VOICES POETRY JOURNAL– It is the mouth piece of the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign where the protest , resistant and resilient voices provoke the Zimbabwean and African leadership to realize that their role is to serve the masses equally and fairy .It is a platform where Brave Voices and Solidarity Voices express the feelings , the emotions , the pains and suffering of the people through poetry and Flash fiction. Contact the Curator/EDITOR of the Brave Voices Poetry Journal Mbizo Chirasha at miombopublishing@gmail.com , post on MiomboPublishing Facebook Group or inbox the Curator on Messenger.

 

Edited and Curated by MBIZO CHIRASHA Recipient of PEN Deutschland Exiled Writer Grant (2017) Literary Arts Projects Curator, Writer in Residence, Blogs Publisher, Arts for Human Rights/Peace Activism Catalyst, Social Media Publicist and Internationally Anthologized Writer, 2017 African Partner of the International Human Rights Arts Festival Exiled in Africa Program in New York.2017 Grantee of the EU- Horn of Africa Defend Human Rights Defenders Protection Fund. Resident Curator of 100 Thousand Poets for Peace-Zimbabwe, Originator of Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Movement. African Contributor to the Table of Words Demer Press International Poetry anthology edited by Hannie Rouweler in Netherlands. Solidarity Member of Global Alliance for Politics and Arts. African Participant to the 2014-2020 World Poetry Almanac Anthologies series in Mongolia edited by Hadaa Sendoo. Co-Editor of German Africa Bilingual Collection with German International Translator Andreas Weiland in 2016 (http://www.street-voice.de/SV7/SVissue7.html).

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2 thoughts on “Journal 53:BRING VIOLINS NOT VIOLENCE.

  1. Beyond all reasonable doubt, it can be said that Poetry is the train wherewith the spirit of man journeys to death while still living. it is a craft. the occult of words. Poetry supersedes the great cries of Troy. It is the birth of existence in Paper. Poetry is the madness of every form of creativity.

    Liked by 1 person

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