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Smoke

I was born in a.45 With steady hand and a steely eye I know my guilt, it's my disease My soul is smoke and it curls with the breeze I am the angel without wings I know the pleasure and the pain it brings I am the river, where flanks divide I kiss the moon where day and night collide Father of the burden that bleeds the sun Brother of the shadows, barrel of my gun The gentle killer, they call me here I am the servant of your lonely fear The ghostly roses, the symbol of Beauty is eternal is the minds of those who love Nothing lasts forever but when memories fade We forget what we have lost and the difference it made My soul; my sorrow My soul; my sorrow My soul; my sorrow My heart; my shame

Copyright © | Year Posted 2015




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Date: 11/21/2015 8:10:00 PM
A lovely and haunting poem, indeed, Zhish Kebab....and what an INTERESTING name; I would also have thought something like Baba Ganoush might have aroused some interest....hopefully, this piece is not a harbinger of nor comment upon any of the recent regrettable events....
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