withers with weather-ed change.
Just as the radios distributed
have withered away in rust,
in want of signals-
that hang limply
in desperate search.
The tendons of snapped cables,
doctored channels,
filtered news.
doctored channels,
filtered news.
News freeze in memory
too curfewed to kiss
the caskets called
brain sockets-
just as
my neighbour's blood lies buried
under layers of this snowy 'paradise'
in an awaited wish to
unstiffen and thaw.
To release
bloody tears of 'special status' happiness.
Can you see the bunkers
behind the green paints?
Or do you think it's the lush
green valley
rosy with bloody apples?
But before he could see
he was shot..
"A terrorist killed in ambush"-
the news reports.
