To commit atrocities
In the name of love
Such monstrosities
Causes steps of
A cautioned hush
The presence of those returned
Warriors- gentle brush
Bloodied hands that burned
The lives of love
To return to their own.
The release of doves
Cannot absolve your trail of bones.
When you draw your knife,
Think of your wife.
The world goes distant.
I can feel myself
slipping
dissipating
into the words,
the worlds
that I bring life to.
Somehow I feel
betrayed,
A world which
Begins with the
Click of the
Day, with
Every tick
From the clock
Going round,
Hounding the day till
I drag myself out,
“Harris is a communist,” My grandfather protests.
“Better a communist than a felon,” My father shoots back.
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