I have heard tales

where the beast

is loved

by the beauty.

and the pain

is taken

by the winds

in the eyes.

and the hard

is made


by the soft.

the way(s) –

we can hope –

we will be saved.

© Hudson Biko



I walked into halls filled with jail cells.

Each empty.

They told me that I was the first one here.  That I could choose which one I wanted. Then abruptly pushed me before I could ask how many of us they expected.

Stumbling down halls dumbfounded by the concoction of silence and anxiety.

Momentarily thinking. “What am I doing here?” Turning behind.

Met by eyes penetrating the flickering darkness. Voices utter, “Continue.”

Each cell surrounded by blood.

Each bed covered by stained and saturated sheets.

Sheets that are still somehow spread in expectation.

Tightly tucked across the metal framed edges. The few patches of white glistening in their exclusivity.

Come here. Sleep.

There is no choice here.

Running. Back to wherever I came from. Wherever that is.




A hand grips my shoulder. “We told you to continue.”

Dragged down dark halls. Walls crumbling.

Muttering. “I don’t want to be here.”

In a succession of blurs,

sitting alone

in emptiness.

Staring at the abyss.


Why me.

Screams that pierce the deafening silence.


7.04 AM.