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Runner
A threadbare sigh relentlessly lisps
while he begs with twilight
for inner calm;
Dear life...he is just a young man,
wobbly feet wanting to run away
from unknown ground which reeks of
territorial conquest, of violenve inhumane
as rat- tat- tat of bullets explodes:
Just like one nameless label
of life's bloody route ,
he turns into a fetal shape on the road
leading to nowhere; not even hell--
till grunts of combat lamentations
echo upon the breeze;
crushed grains hurling a lone figure
half alive, half lifeless
with rosary beads on his neck...
amidst coal of eve.
Copyright ©
Nette Onclaud
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