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.

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1 Comment

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


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