||Charlesapeda (21.12.2018 03:06:18)
All this talk through a channel tunnel
of kid gloves and landmines went underground.
You were communicable my limbs
in sequels and spoofs, commemoration my organs
with friends gone by the board, whose names like patients’ names.
Our clumped crave stirs and how
when unwound, as with DNA, it sweetly wounds us.
Security in the right niche, you said, is faith misplaced
or no wait at all. But I assert, in my dreams I vision,
in my dreams I do not hope.
Where were you when was I? Counting down
the decades representing the honour as sacrificial lamb of our quondam war.
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