Michael Parke, Staff Writer

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I see five bones sticking out

Of the ground—

Ten people numb, twenty

People impregnated with weird

Memories in their heads;

Twenty thousand within a psychosis,

A self-reflecting twin mirror—

The Horror

Captivates fifty thousand more,

Even the local prostitute talks about it

From the doorway between customers—

A flower grows from a skull

Clouds float overhead

The toll strikes entire countries

As we’re met with death herself.


Then we see a nation swept with Pride,

A sea of hands in protest

Against HIM, our enemy, and now

It’s time for war.

But for what?

The time being?

To get their fifty thousand diving to the floor?

To get their fifty thousand

To cry,

Commit suicide,

And raise their hands in protest?



Or so it seems for the now,

The past

And the ever present future.

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