By Ahmed Latif
Down the ladder the snake slithers.
Hearts plucked off the branch
Like strings plucked on a harp.
We are lost in the fog
And drowned in the mist.
We are the proud sick few
Who once dared to dream
The brimstone is brimming with words.
Converging fears convulsing in the dark.
We listen with ambitious intentions.
After we have awoken,
The colour stream drains
But the residue is austere.
In a world without dreamers,
Home is the direction the wind is gusting.
Carry the sickness in your sleep.
Never speak earnestly.
Bite your tongue until it bleeds.
This contagion will taste like truth.