Poetry & Poets

She is seated at the centre of herself
while time rots at her feet.
The clocks melt, you’d think she is careless,
Could it be grief?

It’s nuts, I know.
Well, the story I’m about to tell.
It’s closer, maybe, to nuts. Like the knucklehead kind…

I weep for humanity.
I weep for the children,
The young lives lost, stolen,