Radio

The story is same
those whose stars never shine
still find ears in the hearts of those with eyes,
with sticky fingers holding blood

The radio tells the tale through lies
It sticks its face on our walls
brushing a mural to the sky.
The story is same

The radio rumor about death,
about children with no feet,
those umbrellas with basket holes
those whose stars never shine.

The radio finds us all
those lurking in concatenated tongues,
and those with pierced words on their palms
still find ears in the hearts of those with eyes.

The radio does not forget
it writes, erases and writes and erases
it never forgets, it is stained
with sticky fingers holding blood.

Ruddapoet