Oh my children, born into a world of opposites; dividing lines. The horizon, like the wild words of dictators, stomps parapets and, uneasy, leaves drift by them from tree to ground expecting scorn. Seeds rear bruised heads through soil’s ceiling awaiting crazed weather’s cruel whip. Invisible clouds, our human waste, hug tight Earth’s sphere; suffocating snug. I am sorry, my sweet children... we have not been more enlightened.
A “Gasa” (a Korean form) written for sanaarizvi’s dVerse Poetics Prompt