Oya leaves a new poem here every day. Beneath where the pictures used to hang, in the ash of obliterated art. If the wind and rain don’t wash the old ones away, a single brush of her boot does the rest.
She doesn’t mind that no one sees her words. The ephemerality of it all is the point. No-one suspects a thing.
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Notes:
1. Written between the 7th and the 10th of May, 2021
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