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A Poem

Photo by Ilya lix on Unsplash

Screaming at redemption
solid, strokes instead of caresses
because it’s in disguise again
And you don’t know if it’s the frail
smoker, curled dull hair
with sweatpants and rage
behind every facial crease
Or the madman with that muscle
and the strength to force reason
through little holes
Or the collapsed building
collecting weeds, flowers that
no one wants grown
in their own testaments to love
Casuistic and solemn
the ties between pages…