Vol 13, Num 12 :: 2014.06.13 — 2014.06.26
I hear the
The trees’ screams
Hanging in the air
Every time we pass
That stretch of road,
There where blood
And skin and muscle
Was shredded into mulch.
Bony branches white,
Torn and sharp, plead
For pity
Too late.
And I wonder just how
Much more sun will reach
The road this winter.
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