Tuesday, March 10, 2026

This Is the Point

We point

carefully

at the other man.


The neighbour.

The stranger.

The faceless crowd.


The house is called Earth.


Invisible hands

have coloured the walls tonight

red in the lamplight.


Someone is singing

in the square:


Drums.

Sirens.

Boots in procession

Beat in the dark,

Nightmare.


A thin cry travels

under the music—


a child somewhere

without a voice.


They have written a word

on the wall

broken by noise.


Liberty.


The paint has not yet dried.


Morning enters quietly

through shattered glass.


And the wind asks

no one in particular—


What was the point.

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