Tainted Lung

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There is assorted indifference to what maybe inevitable.

It has always been this way…since the broken buildings have come into view.

With tainted lung plunged deep in my throat.

Without a heart upon my sleeve,

if so, a lie for all to believe.

I am the absconded wind on winter leaf.

An adult child, too old, born too late, for a deficit disorder.

A crumpled political banner, looking for a yard.

Like a New Hampshire storm, I fall for love of disposable beings…

And, the arrest is inevitably, hard.

There is comfort in another year’s comfort.

Covered bridges and mountain spring faucets.

Or, of a lone worn chair in the forest.

Places where ravaged thoughts can take a rest.

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