an Aotearoa poetry journal | ISSN 2744-3248

All Editions

Tarot #07
Tarot #06
Tarot #05
Tarot #04
Tarot #03
Tarot #02
Tarot #01

Dry tears

In the September morning fog
caustic clouds of smoke steamed up,
from the exhaust pipes of family minivans,
cars stretched along the side of the road,
column, similar to a playful domestic snake.

The birds became silent, stunned,
a leper projectile flew in with lightning
remains smoldering in the abyss,
the devil cooks a proud cauldron.

The destinies of hundreds of people have been ruined,
life 30 forever broken,
took away the enemy’s fluttering lives,
whose souls have gone to heaven.

Blood runs like ants through the body,
and saliva is not swallowed,
feet get cold, language is taken away.