Biome
Biome, can we protect ourselves from being smothered?
How is it still so reassuring to the organ wasting away?
In a box of rolled cigarettes,
My majesty is rotten
And the skin is morphing
To the fears of individualism.
Seeking and counting,
Hatred is a long fuse.
Dusk descends, latex hands,
Identity screenshot memoir.
My body is porous and filled with seeds
God's miscarriage.
Writer/s: RORIK ABRAM BROOKS
