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There has always been a strange way to gather persons near.

A tune to mania in fire.

Satire from a funeral pyre.

Members of the good household.

The union of delirium.

Held their place with color.

All were,

back-handed their cast.

One black, one red, one blue…

Each with their anthology of dues.

Fifty years young, I ponder that avocation.

My father’s way of isolating hate.

As if,

compassion meant escape.

Or,

love to a ghastly iron gate.

Housed had been the laughter on a two-party line.

Inside friends…difficult to find.

Yet, with all these years of postmortem reflection.

It  had been the quiet huntress who kept the everyday, subdued.

I am awed still by the hidden portrait of pain she installed.

Meticulously setting the colors of my small world,

for a fall.

 

 

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