Oblivion Poem by Richard George

Oblivion

Rating: 4.0


Medea, wracked with pain,
would have blessed our word with a deep sigh
from her stabbing womb - docked as it is -
anaesthetic.
Staph sickens ours to be,
a bunch of grapes, its hieroglyph
illuminated gold on the slide.
People die, not languages.

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Richard George

Richard George

Cheltenham, U.K.
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