Saturday, October 22, 2011

The Children of the Dead



Trapped like flies
In sticky sap
The more they struggle,
The more they collapse;


Enveloped with guilt,
Like a burning ooze,
With no reprieve,
They endure the past;

Nowhere to go--
Neither forward
Nor back--

Like the desert,
Parched and cracked,
They can only wait
For the winter rain.

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