Photo by Eva Blue on Unsplash

To eke out a shred of humanity for my father,
innocuous only by his absence now,
I had to lower myself into such deep depths of my soul
that it felt more like a hanging
than a kindness
(and I was not alone).

An entire congregation of men and woman
performed ablution in the fountain of their own blood.
They prayed and dined together and sold
psychopaths as the mentally deranged,
pedophiles as imams and priests; and men
with social media bladders and policemen impulses,
roamed free
as husbands and fathers. An entire species

sold on the idea of forgiveness,
just so they could open up their conscience
to accommodate a little more evil.

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Source: Victorien Ameline

Like mothers still responsive to
to the phantom vibrations
of a now
infertile womb, to the uterine kicks of
a stillbirth, and the smiling memory
of a wrinkled grandmother, we
cushion ourselves
in the folds of death.

So many of us
have become the earth that closes
around the graves
of the caskets, we lowered into the
maggot-begotten grounds. So many of us
try to stop the insects
from wriggling over
the undecomposed memories of
once alive flesh.

Our reverence
for the place, we have dug ourselves
deep in
mistaken for misery. Our dyslexia
for the language of the living
mistaken for
stubborn mourning. Don’t they understand

that our vow of silence
is a private matter with the dead; that our
deadbeat eyes
stare into the abyss of
an inhuman world — for which to see,
they’ll have to make
the same necrophagic plunge
as ours

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Ahsan Yousaf

Ahsan Yousaf

252 Followers

A writer who holds a firm conviction that everyone has a wealth of emotional reserve that’s begging to be mined and inked.