_©naبeela

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"They gave us a home
Knitted by a black thread
The stone in my white hand was heavier than it
As it guaranteed peace."

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What happens to the past when you live it?
Does it die like nothing?
Or does it decompose?

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"My home"

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"All epics they read, grand poems they narrate,
I lurked in the shadows of my words,
Screaming yet unheard."

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The tragedy is when they are too strong to destroy you but too powerless to love you.

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The instinct of hunger,
The instinct of survival
The duality of evil and love,
Fight or flight
Might die with death,
As said.
Yet the instinct of freedom
Rebels and defies,
Spreads like that
Malignant gene,
Destroying bodies,
& Generations
This gene of freedom
With insane sanity,
Proliferates to prompt
Our perspectives,
Our narratives,
Our revolution.

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...

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_©Naبeela

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©Naبe_la

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