Devika Brendon
It’s the same way you know right away when the milk turns sour: Something that you thought was wholesome curdles and transforms Like a directional vector, changing in mid air; A spear hurled like a military drone. And it’s the way it is, and it is the end of it. It’s like an Emperor unfitted for his own throne What started sweet, and shy and hopeful Like a child fresh anointed from its bath Is now tainted: cannot even be freshly painted The hope at the heart of it has gone
Old Water Rat Publishing 