Saturday, July 4, 2015

war-lands

At eight years old I knew death was a journey
somewhere where angels await, my mother held me to
her chest as I sobbed for my grandfather's blue eyes
he is well in heaven she said

At twelve I knew death was a braid detached
and picked out of the rubble
I cannot forget my mother's
rush to close my eyes
Don't let the kids see

Don't let the kids see
she said

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