Skhothane

skhothane

The Drum of Society That Skin These Dreams, Beats in The Language That In-slaves the Condoned Feet,As The Precious Sweat Of Custard Masks The Streets…

Footprints Cheat Reason of Truth, Every-Move, Purpose lost airs In the Dance of “Cool”, The Wages Of Freedom Rands in These-Possibilities Of What Could’ve and Couldn’t Have Been…

Wounded Memories Tissue the Heir of Their Own Seeds, Water Them with Notes That Dehydrate the Pages Of Success Whilst They Can’t Read…

They Become Charities Of Their Own Gifts, Boxed With it their Profit Margins Sleeps
As The Precious Sweat Of Custard Masks The Streets, If They Saw Nothing, What Do The Blind Reap?…

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