This is a survival poem
that clawed its way up
the ziggurat of buried
ideas and reached
the temple top to pray
for an escape.
Fresh ink drips off
the edges of the walls
like guilt on a
retrospective day.
It camouflages into
sunshine smiles and
wallflower wisdom,
praying that new beginnings
are not like hidden rot
in bamboo poles,
hidden until it’s too late.

Tell me, when do you talk
about the weight of your bones,
the rust in your veins?
Watch the world wait
until it’s too late.