Red Room Where the Writers Are

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A flash and terrible static roar
Scorching everything in its path
We are left weak and ignorant
Our skin flapping about like goat’s ears
pierced and punctured with an ascetic silence
We are emptied, closed, muted to it.
Our hands and bellies are loud with the evidence
Invisibly conquering, compromising our senses
Mutilating our limbs
There is no cure.
On our bodies is written volumes of injustice,
And we die quietly, anonymous and forgotten.