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TUESDAY (3/17/09)

There is an immense and colorless grief in the world and so I urge no malice against this frenzied persuasion, call for no punishment, seek no apology or pain, instead, let us search for our own truths… without weeping.

Returning to the disquieted world like a nomadic ghost covered in sand, the uniforms carefully starched and pressed hold the warriors up, their eyes, stories of woe.

The crows, above our fears, fly, shadows trace along the wall and money slips by.

It will not be his last rejection, but, fret not, gates will open for him again, hunched in the heaving nighttime bloodstained hands, talons.

O! Again! Glorious is this achievement, machines lifting mere mortals to heaven... If only man could be as magnificent.

A cautionary truth of war soars home. Everyone knows we’ll no more embrace her affection and that rising in her place, a world exposed, more ready to punish her assassin.



© 2008 mrp/thepoetryman

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