Despoiled Voices
When lost to the moment
ill begotten by a wind
there twirls the devil’s cyclone
that traps all hope within
Foreign and invasive
it seeds wherein we fall
immune to every warning
Thomas doubting Paul
For babies who haven’t learned to cry
the border waits redemptive
Kerouac their fate inscribed
Mexico City Blues alive
In the emptiness of tomorrow’s lore
dead echoes grieve stillborn
despoiled voices lying mute
— unspoken in their scorn
(Dreamsleep: May, 2026)
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