not quite silence in the
gentle hum of early afternoon
but maybe something softer than
the screams of crows

something more human than the
room of hanged men

and how many years now since
my last escape?

how many hours wasted staring into
dirty mirrors or
through warped panes of glass?

what i see is that at
some point in the future i will be
asking my son for forgiveness

at some point
i will speak of my own father
for the last time

will spit out his ashes while
faceless men in the towns i’ve escaped from
beat their wives and girlfriends with
the brutal fists of love

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