Outcast of the Land

Outcast of the land With silence, pictures of life seem to be— a gift galvanized in pain, in fear of sound, decent frustration Scoffing at efforts developed shearing uniform forces, bending neck at angle of depression Weighing sacks on backs, introducing hope of lost hope. Some smoke their lungs some drink out their mouths some to female flesh some turn to drugs, seeking tranquility Most plead with death for introspection. The speechless linguist— his lover, her aftermath— filled with agony, a lot to unpack A letter inviting a god to a table of four: he, him, himself, and the god discussing why? Why the half hope? Better off not clinging, so much thought to one’s finger Love, live, and let life's bruisers plaster the pain, for it shall soon be gone after death A gift taking one away Pray little to pray longer; be an oak and not fall to one stroke Embracing why pain is shared counter-seeing life as a gift when the pictures are painted with ink of suffering ecstasy. ⚖️PK X