My dreams rise up, inky and wet,
blue, black and red – a testament
to all the bruises that birthed them.
They surround me, like smog at dusk,
and call me an imposter.
I tell them I’ll write about it,
but the bile in my throat
chokes me.
Two decades of writing poetry,
from pencil tips to phone screens,
and now war has rendered me silent.

Concrete slabs weigh down on my chest
each breath is a countdown.
I’m afraid to hit zero.
Lives are grey dust, grey wind, grey skies
and whitewashed hope,
covered in scarlet déjà vu.
My birthday wish for world peace
would never come true
because peace costs a pretty penny
and poverty is free.
In my next life, then,
may I be born into another world,
more humane than my own,
more humane than my own.