Is that leprosy that has stained
Your young brown skin
Or are these burns? Bad ones.
Don’t they hurt?
I can’t see well, the streetlights are bad.
I will tread softly past you.
Careful not to look at you.
Fearing you might catch a sign
Of forlorn empathy in my eyes.
You’ll run to me, and beg
For who knows what.
Your filthiness will make me cringe
And you will understand, I fear.
The light will be out forever then.
Are you not afraid?
Are you past fear of death,
Or pain, or an animal biting
Into you like a man?
Or is your misery more subtle,
Like watching a city burn down,
On the television, and just
Walking away?
How ugly we both look under the streetlight.
No comments:
Post a Comment