Millard Lowe Poet Prose Poetry

Apropos the Refugee

APROPOS THE REFUGEE...

There is nothing left here
for death to claim; even hunger
has abandoned the swollen bellies
and parched skin of the walking dead:
eyes of gigantic pupils sunken deep
into desiccated cranial caverns.

In this fenced graveyard of waning life, flies
soar to and fro---depositing metaphoric maggots
in the midst of the festering wounds of despair.

In this God forsaken place, the flame of hope
grows dimmer with the wrinkling nipples of the breast
of time---her hourglass---haltingly emptying its self:

There is no refuge here
for the refugee.

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