We burn with stars at night
calculating how many drafts
it would take
to get the poem right
How it could capture and transfer
the weight of dirty water buckets
across shoulders of women
balancing rubble each morning
Or the shrapnel of wind
cutting through the skin
of displaced families
with nowhere to go
We stare down reason
like a vulture, ready for its death
go for its throat
swallow every bloody decision
yet to come
We wade through ghosts
knowing the ground beneath our feet
could disappear at any moment
No matter how important it is
self-care doesnít exist
in parts of the world
conjoined with survival

History weaves its thread
like Ariadne through our bones,
so we brave the charge
of rising as spirits from tombs
of senselessness
Thereís a reason poetry
continues to be written
Yet, thereís no amount of editing
that could entomb first-hand suffering
Sometimes we poets carry the weight
of change across our shoulders
giving voice to those silenced
spell-casting that their souls
rest in peace
When the ritual is done
some will say, ďThank you
for understandingĒ
But we donít understand
what we havenít experienced
like the fire of burning stars

And the only voices worth anything
will be from the dead
not the living
Written by Ahavati
Published | Edited 30th Oct 2023
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 9 reading list entries 4
comments 9 reads 321
Commenting Preference: 
The author encourages honest critique.

Latest Forum Discussions
Today 3:43am by cold_fusion
Today 3:42am by cold_fusion
Today 3:33am by wallyroo92
Today 3:32am by Grace
Today 3:32am by wallyroo92
Today 3:18am by Temperancerose