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a boy imprinted with doom on his chest/probably the wing of heaven has held him/no one can tell me that my language is not a metaphor, some days it will house or hold or host a poem & some days it would be deserted like the Atacama desert.

I recognize the shadow of what misery looks like, sometimes it hides behind a veil & most time it performs an autopsy on a strange body; a body catapulted to drag success home. father waiting/mother wailing/& the boy will walk through that gate like a refugee of Yemen, with his eyes watering the garden of his face, a capsule of misery on his left hand & a staff of doom on his right hand.

his body is a screenshot of a body that houses different calvaries, different arcades of gloom.

his body is a beacon to all other boys incorporated with a dungeon of fate on them.

under the sheets

his body is an autograph of metaphor, how can’t you see that from a distance? tell to him that his body is an antonym to form a paradise caste.

boy, watch your footsteps as there are more clichés to represent you in another poem.

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