My country’s people
lick their greedy fingers clean
in its trickle of blood
forgetting the middle thumb
does point back at them.

We stone other glass houses
like bastards who forgot
stones do somersault backwards
hitting the thrower.

We choose leaders based
on tribe & not the wisdom
in their hearts. Cure over
prevention is our heritage.

We lie,
we keep heaping blames
on mounds after mounds
& when the gun backfires,

when the mirror tempers
& cracks into unforgivable pieces,
the shards, scattering across
our lives, scathing us—

We live on, in the rubble.














Photo by Rafael Rodrigues from Pexels