alxmachina - 29/10/2026 - London
Rivers burst washing rubble to the shore
Ankles broken in a twisted promise
Liars cut out my tongue.
All that remains to smell
The smouldering olive
As the sun crashes
To taste the aching cinders
and breathe hurricanes to heaven
By the passing of time
Mankind is surely at loss.
Things fell apart. Her centre cannot hold
These burdens of burning tar.
My mother would make pancakes.
Eggs: whipped and beaten
Poured out, paving the past.
Milk sours and clots.
The flour is dust.
Winter’s bite to preserve what remains.
Editor’s Note
When I commented that it’s interesting that there is food in this poem, because it always comes up in my poetry, the author said this:
I dreamed of pancakes a few days ago - which my Mum did used to make for us as a treat
Then I woke up and made them from my laden shelves
And felt very blessed
Which I felt was a poem in its own right, and wanted to include it here as well
-Hamza
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