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Jul 4
a self forsaken son bleeds in his bed,
broken angels dangle from debarked trees,
paper-maiche sisters swallow pulped spleens,

fathers scream rosaries at the undead,
mothers carve their flesh with unanswered pleas,
Christ choking on a candied apple preens.

I push aside the cataclysmic gloom,
drink moonbeam light from the white river spume,
mock the snake bit reverend who forecasts doom,
and tap my shoes atop this nation’s tomb.
Written by
Eric M Hale  50/M/West Deptford, NJ
(50/M/West Deptford, NJ)   
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