Beneath fleshily woven chainmail, you and I–
we are only strangers in our wardrobes;
stolen by battling bands of light
brothers of the ethereal , we are
as lost as stagnant water in a gutter;

under surface tension leaks longing,
and scrawled in litter, violently apart
our kin is born like poetry

spun into tapestries of imperceptions,
murkily masked in an embryo,
unknowingly a talisman for sickness–

please, hold these flecks of soul to your breast,
let your pores absorb the terror of choice
because I believe in spite of everything,
our bodies can be eternal. after all:
We’re just prophets of the same history.

Photo taken by Mahmoud Illean.


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