Bozgori
Outlander. Homeless. Stateless. My mind is just like the streets of this land where I was born. Reeking. Drowning. Tainted. Dirty.
Run.
Run from the bozgori. When I am strange, I have an axe in my hands and red in my eyes.
Run.
Run from the person without a home. From those who bid farewell to life and greet death.
Here’s the deal.
If you’re false, you’ll run into the knife of the bozgori.
But if you are captured, you’ll be set free.
If you’re a shadow, the light from the bozgori will burn you.
But if you are lost, you’ll be pointed to direction.
If you’re not polite the bozgori will teach you manners.
But if you are without instructions, you will be rendered.
If you are a liar, the bozgori will bury you.
But if you are sick in the mind, you will be given medicine.
Do not play with the bozgori. For the rugged scars, embrace a heart made of tempered glass.
Do not sneak.
For I see through you, always.
— under the light: self image
May 22nd, 2022
