August 2025 – elancharan gunasekaran

the pilgrims of the bog sing songs of freedom shaping mud into spears of nature’s wrath

after dark kids gather round to listen to the stories hissed by a serpent with lanterns for scales

warships steer into the fog only to be greeted by razor glass winds

summer after dawn a second sun rises and slits open its throat

disrupt is too kind of a word. rebellion sounds nicer

poets on the streets do not care for academia or the laurels of the scholarly kind we write to exist in a world afraid to see reality for what it really is

ungodly designs of the flesh ruminating with eyes wide open in the light after dawn

the mist lingers above the concrete a predator ready to dive into bones

I’m looking at separated lands and displaced people and inside me something inside me stirs and tears perhaps it is a thing called conscience a soul maybe a mutter a flutter it comes from within and I listen and allow it to shape me maybe listen give the voice inside you a chance to speak

moths circle the fractured fire and sadly none will die tonight