The ministry of beauty is now off my hands
And foregone those wonders of sense.
Smeared by the oozings of unsealable wounds,
The air now is pungent with Hemoglobin smells
And smoke from the bonfire of skin.
Blackened to their core,
My words are on strike,
And locked out my workshop of hope.
Padlocked in times that are raped beyond rage
My sentences cringe amid funereal howls
And gather rather messed on my page.