Of What I Do Not Write

I write of desires and flesh,
Flames flickering black and red,
Touches as light as summer rain.
I write of marks and letters,
Ink that displays itself,
Silent pauses in between.
I write of sunlight and flowers,
Gossamer threads of a spider’s web,
Dried leaves twirling in the wind.
I write of spices and spaces,
Aromas that waft in through the cracks,
Amber liquids swirling, half-stubs burning.

Notice of what I do not write.

I write not of silences and screams,

Nor of the blood that drips onto the streets,
No rape mars my verse, no riot erupts,
No prostitute sells wares,
No lives, money, blood and flesh traded.
I draw the veil over their existence as others have before;
I join the ranks of history,
And judge myself guilty.