Tasenda

My death won't be covered No obits, no pictures No profiles with a catalogue of dreams No 3000 word essays in the New Yorker Maybe an inch in the local paper My death wont be covered I am not sexy enough I am not white enough  I am not interesting enough Unless they can pin something on me My death won't be covered My blood isn't red enough My grief isn't relatable enough My life isn't worth enough Maybe it is not fashionable enough My death won't be covered Public executions don't draw crowds Private ones cost a fortune  Poverty is a boon after all Not everyone has company in the grave after all My death won't be covered  I don't have a name or even a number I don't have a home or even a shroud  I don't have a bomb or even a cause Or a mortgage to buy a few minutes of respite My death won't be covered  And i won't even be remembered But my oppressor will be celebrated His pain will be taught in schools While, My death won't be co

I have seen your dreams I know why you scream Why the city of your heart is so utterly desolate I see graves shimmering, with  Mountains on fire, windows shuttered and empty picture frames   Vendors of rain litter your streets,  knocking down broken deodar doors  Slogans smeared on your empty walls,  promising that the revolution is in the air Boarded-up lanes guarded by strays  Lead up to vacant homes,  embers of lost stories keeping fire barely alive   Even your distant skies, a screenshot of  paisleys inlaid with grief are  knotted into a prison  made of shattered glass   I have seen your dreams I know why you scream !!