Published on 12:00 AM, July 21, 2018

Poetry

UNTITLED

No, you have no home.

You are the son of the 

whirling wind

and the smashing waves.

You've laid to waste

on the endless green 

you used to breathe in.

Your home is the shrieking 

sound of closing doors,

your refuge lies with 

drunks and whores.

No, you have no purpose.

Your painful lusts are only 

Excuses;

All have some use and

you've used up all.

Yes, you have an end.

And he'll smile for you, your

one last friend.

Christos Sotiriou is an alumnus of the Law School,  University of Heidelberg, Germany.