>Swinging on the knobbled
branches of a tree that hobbled,
towards the pond that held,
life’s juices that meld.

The bird flew high,
towards a sorrow so nigh,
the dust settled on a scar,
on a land of afar.

We walked towards,
this violence,
so radiant and bright,
held on to our leaking wounds,
so tight.

I lay my hand upon this present,
scarred with the past on the crescent.
There they go to the flowers,
‘neath the austere sentry towers.


2 thoughts on “>Mood

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