on burnt, gauzed wings by Hammad
deriving your constant disaster
seeking reason to hold second nature
a candle to the scorching death of your pleasure ames forging the face of the crying master
with my head buried in my hands
and my hair dampest around it's fringes while the skin raises to a thousands syringes forceful to move a corpse till it stands
phantasmagoric, one may say.
the real pleasure was the pain of fl ight
when rotting feathers line the trail of searching and a shred of bandage marks a place of meaning the daggered wounds cry a silent blight
oh burnt, gauzed winds
carry repair to the limping limbs
and rapport to the screeching screams
on burnt, gauzed wings
”My name is Hammad and I am 17 years old. My writing is often influenced by the music and art I consume, as well as by my most contemplative days and when I'm at my lowest. The solace I gain during these exercises is one I hope translates into work that is meaningful.”