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About This Poem
By Her Own Hand
Charades
were played
and we laughed
and you became “buns”
forever nicknamed on my heart,
no one else remembers why, nor do I.
By the light of a campfire
sullied by the liquor of wounded days
laughter covered the cries of two children scarred.
We fought our battles apart,
married many band-aids, but healed little,
torn apart by the sins of our fathers.
And now you are dead forever;
they mourn and curse the aftermath
but you and I will laugh again as you soar
in the freedom of the last charade.
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