Gabay is like a blood vessel ready for rupture.
A thrombosis of emotions breaking its incarnation.
I feel as though I’m going vomit the troubles out.
Sweet the struggles away.
But as the sky bleeds and the Maghrib prayer is called.
The sorrow and doubts.
The vengeance and temptations.
Deeply seasoned on the roast meat.
I consume. I drink. I swallow. I absorb.
My vessels get tighter.
My brain gets heavy.
My eyes roles back.
My arm drops.
This is my stroke of unresolved metaphors.
Sentences without a beginning and an end.
Loss of equilibrium to my letters for the dead.
Thickness of undefined words, my coronary arteries are vas-constricted.
I skip a beat.
Anomie, it wears it well.
But I sweat, sweat blood. Gallons of rhythms and notes.
Is this the life of Abwaan or Gabayad.
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