We are faith's sardonic smile
Suffering heaven's guile.
The dark realists
That cannot cry,
Barefoot, hands coiled in fists
We will soon get over it;
Another sun will rise.
Our material bodies will be spared
When the last tear dries.
Quiet little specks of burnish
Float upon the shore,
We ask them if they miss their kin.
They laugh without hindsight, reach up and whisper:
'Not anymore.'
1/15/2007
Black Christmas
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