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Blast
War is upon us,
none wanted, yet all predicted.
Blast the TV faces,
Blast the gun-rich reapers.
Heavy the price - light the blasted child
the match lighters.
The conflict is here,
yet-not-yet do we fully flinch,
but give-way inch by inch,
behind the already blasted doors
of new lost freedoms.
Blast those we once trusted.
Blasted are the blasted,
all the blasted faces.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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