Friday, August 12, 2011

I put my hand inside an open window
I pulled out what I thought was mine:
This home of fire
Cindering blackness
Burglarized, or burgled as the British say,
of smoke wrapped round me
Thievery apprehended by smoldering freedom
Whistle blowers
The burnt offering. The window now closed.
Airless lately,
I can't breathe
I lay in clasping breathlessness
I think of what they say: When a brother dies, you die with him
So with open hand as fraternal friend
I pull out what is mine
The hope I know in cindering blackness
I can't breathe
So I slip, slip
So I dream a peculiar dream of home and fire
My final sleepy eyes, like the years ahead, is yet to be

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