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Nellie, 1983

Very often the sun rises
in warm, golden rays
on opening buds,
birdsong and dewdrops,
and the stench of stale death.

Very often the sun rises
Upon mutilated men -
blood drying over their eyes
and gore-caked machetes
rusting in their abdomens.

Very often the sun rises
over hyaenas fretting
over the carrion going waste -
they can eat no more,
nor can the vultures.

Very often the sun rises
on a day already defeated
- shrieking, screeching, screaming,
demanding that it go back
for there was peace in the night.

Published in Tranquil Muse 2018.


fishbowl said…
This is beautiful!
Anonymous said…
After a long time I read something this intense and loved every bit of it. Wonderful Thoughts.

Liked your writing. Following you now. **smiles**
Ozymandias said…
Thank you so much!

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