A Quartet



this poem is a finder of voices,
its spectral form lingers
in the midst of human turmoil
looking for an empathic match
and, when found, it bridges
the divide between them
and changes


this poem is a tree
waiting for the birds
to return and fill it
with their songs.


For a moment
this poem
made sense.

that moment
was over


This is poem is dead.
Killed in its mother’s womb.
It’s brain matter extruded,
just for a pack of cigarettes
in a chilling war game.
This poem wanted to play games too,
games that little children play.

2 thoughts on “A Quartet

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