The streets stood on the backs
of men
—whose regiment settles sour
scores
who leave in their wake those
wanting more.
And
perched upon those marble tiles
between the sameness stretching
aisles
no one has the gall to
whisper—get out now.
The crowd becomes a
stepping-stone
for men who wish they’d never
grown,
now shadows running free around
the town.
So do
not dare stop and stare
there’s no more heat left in
the flare
For, all the boys who left for
war; stayed there.
2012
2012
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