What It’s Like

Myths bloom among mistakes.

A voyage of secrets:

along the routes of truth

you hear real screams.

Put down your pencil. People are dying

on the artists’ street.

What’s the point of rhyme

when your body doesn’t know what’s worse:

instant fire, or aimlessness

in endless hallways.

The poetic license expires.

Put down your pencil. You manage

instant sympathy.

You feel in your entrails

the hand of annihilation.

A missile eliminates

A bomb shatters you.

You are now expert in possible demises

The end of a straw-packed trunk of dreams

What’s life like

in death’s developments?