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Down the weapons
I am curious as a girl at my own body.
Course laywork in my circulatories
dearest prism upon my shoulders
how I show love is a sunbath
to a undercover honey essence
in my hair tips.
Good (green) in the sand
sprout out olive tears
to strain upon the branch
draining blood in the sun swirls.
Footsteps on the sand
bootstraps loaded in ill favor.
How he held a weapon to a child
to hold the door open,
a magnetic heavy conscience
dragged his sanity to rags
in the lottery of crossfire;
unannouced death by mortar,
child fingers clutching the door handle.
Bitter loss at the brain commune
today, half all wallowed in
yesterday.
Why doesn't everyone agree to live?
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