Haiku #99 – #105


All pain is external, Like oil
from a thousand thistles,
Hurts only when applied to my skin.


On the island
Life with no urgency
No sense of emergency.


My family’s diaspora,
Like chess pieces
On different boards.


At the firing squad wall
The shackles fell,
I deliberately missed myself.


Destiny lifts us to heaven,
To dungeons doom delivers,
Unseen mouths swap words.


The hypocrisy
Of exile, mid winter,
Resides in judges teeth.


The more I give towards others
Than towards myself,
The more my self might live.

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