By Tshediso Seroki

Cold drums moving sounds like broken music, bombs for hearts that explode at every embrace. When arms deal with death, triggers touch timelines with no turning back.

Mouth full of bullets,
Tongue ready to shoot for the heart that’s in search for a body to make a home from, dead bodies build cathedrals out of collapsing dreams. Sons are told to go out and look for love, for feeling, for home but they never come back at all, or they come back with spirits of elders on their back. At night sons fade into darkness, or they become darkness that give body count to stars.

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