the wind blew
into bones.
it was winter.
the beds were cold.
and sometimes
the thoughts fell into
others. each strangling.
living in a past
gone. but sill felt.
still here.
in this moment.
where the beds were
as silent
as the nights.
where the nights were
as cold
as the beds.
and sometimes the bullets
fired.
close enough
to feel close enough.
close enough to
chase faces
into vices
that felt a whole
lot like warmth.
and no one cared.
© Hudson Biko
hudson biko 