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15h
a self forsaken son bleeds in his bed,
fathers scream rosaries at the undead,

broken angels dangle from debarked trees,
mothers carve their flesh with unanswered pleas,

paper-maiche sisters swallow pulped spleens,
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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