For the Children We Are Killing

The boy as old as your own

walks to the convenience store


to meet his murderer is disremembered, until

it haunts your own eyes.  No rose-


tinted glasses work here.  The mildly


waifish woman—her efforts to remain silently

unseen are in vain because that just makes her more


mysterious.  She steps into another world she

creates with fingers moving along


typeface.  The page forgets nothing

even when the voice which penned it is cold,

is gone, is no more.


1 Comment

  1. The world of a writer is indeed linked to the keyboard…one we can create and recreate.

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