by john robinson
Surrendering like a
ghost-town rain
window-shutters rattled
an unsettled night
that found itself
running towards
a small child
that weeps a mother’s
grief across the globe
a voice carved into stone
before which, we
dreamily lower our
heads into a samsara
of common shame
& the canals of folk-lore
navigating wealthy veins
flow thru the
annihilation of a
single pulsating flower
drowning in your shaking palm.

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