Coming Home
thorns roam across my forehead
a thousand squirms prevaricate,
of the silhouetted sun dance
the ice cream man can only melt
hounds and the hustlers
rejoice under beam
the dead had quietly spoke
confession talks falsely
the hour is late
two adders are approaching
the wind began to howl
are we not the victims of the war
the steeple guard reigned
clearing the morning air
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