last of the just

i don’t touch the flame

much, open the gates,

but when the mood takes me –

 

i’m held, a relic of the war,

scrawled-on for decades;

a keepsake.

 

withdraw:

how many times have i crawled,

stung from spite

 

because of hurt?

like a child. tonight

i’m tempted by the flowers

 

slaked in the pool, & the fleet

of ducks drawn,

so quietly;

 

it’s hunger that moves them.

 

 

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