It was happening.
It was a perverse state, one by one,
we were tearing apart our wholeness, our human heritage.
A distorted image of beautiful order.
We went assembling the torn limbs.
Each desire was sutured like a wound, to become a scar.
It was a collective grief of history.
Abrasion of ‘me’, grotesquely disfigures the face of soft weightless peace.
Love has never been the same. The little things have become enormous ghosts trampling our senses. Ugly scrawls are scaring.
