Istreblenie Tiranov
it would be so nice to see you with so much i have to tell you it can seem my words are wasted when they’re merely written down in the room that i am renting there’s a table where i’m sleeping its my first sight come the morning for there’s little else aroundon the table a collection of some pills that i've been taking i can’t tell you if they’re working but i have them, so i do while an unused ink eraser lies beside my pen and paper i’ll admit that while i’m writing i direct each word to youthough you wouldn’t recognise me if you were to sit and face me you’d struggle now to place how we’ve a path that overlaps in your memory the traces, amid a sea of fading faces, former footsteps interlace to forge a pattern to the maplong before your claim to power, long before you climbed the ladder long before depicted portraits matched your statue in the square we would ruminate together in the shadow of our mothers two conciliatory neighbours playing soldier to prepareback then, our guns were made of branches; the river banks, our trenches we’d embellish our adventures over every evening tea now, you’re long past masquerading and i hear you’re soon parading with your fleet, below my window, merely metres from meso i face one last decision, i’ll execute it with precision though you optimise revision as you wipe your history clean while they deify your passage, erasing wrinkles from your image i think i’ll muster up the courage to compose a closing sceneat first, i thought assassination might resuscitate the nation soon deduced with consternation i’d be drowned out with the sound may i, instead, be found by neighbours, dead, surrounded by my letters, read they'll sound much better said rather than merely written down