A bent wheel with a rhythmic call
Flowers wither under tyranny’s boot
She was the toughest soldier I ever met
That is true for all of us
Love is nothing if not cliché
I am tired of hours so bitter
And much of it grieved my heart to think
What man has done to man
And I must think
Do all I can
That there was pleasure there
Our thumbprints are everywhere
A teacher of composition
And she became an action
Telling the children bed time stories
From the book she
loved
Children examine through crystallizing eyes
Training for the next war
Flowers floating around the bedroom
Like poet misses paper
Because my body knows this poem is over
Without warning
I was tearing apart
I was petrified
I couldn’t blink
I fell
And that’s habit.
Compiled by Casper Wyatt
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