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Our Dis-ease


Even the cover of nightfall cannot hide them from our eyes. The drone and wail of midday traffic with its metal revolving frame and dull hued face cannot tuck itself far enough under to disappear in.

A home; a cardboard box of hope, exposed in the tiny flashes of night. Ashen and eager, they set fire to the night. Sing for any coil of warmth to cuddle with. They are most ready
to have our arms opened to them upon the streets of their future snow. Charity is never work, it is a gift, a hand open, ready to sing its song of love and have a seat at the table of man. We are them, they are we like the sun is no less the sun from the other side. They are there, we are there, humming beneath lampposts and under garbage bins. We want to listen, to hear an ocean of love.


© 2010 by mark prime



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