Monday, November 28, 2005

Hints of Treason

Unlucky strands
Matted to her cheek.
The tears streaming,
Strands jealously observing
Whole head blown freely
Gusting through the
Point of ceaseless mourning.

Son, a passenger
Young one, divine and quiet
An angel through anyone's.
The window holds back wind,
Sensations layers below skin.
For son, a vision of father:

Helmethair, dust of exploded
Cement walls, desert rocks.
Selfstunning paralysis,
A cessation of direct commands,
And now lacks the training
To ask questions of himself.
Skins darker, welcome the chance.


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