Poem: Untitled Poem



Anyone can come or go whenever they like but I must sit here to listen for the faint whispers of hope that are carried within the monstrous agony of wars past — mine, my father's, his father's, my son, and his son's — I look everywhere for the switch that will turn this machine off but I keep ending up with bloodied parts my soul hacked and slashed and my brain burning as if infected with white phosphorus.

The palm of my spirit pushes outward my head burns as I seek a bed of ferns where I could lay myself down protected by the sun, the guardian of my peace, and lullabied by the wash of wind whose undertow pulls me out of my fear, lean close my eyes now as I am at last among friends.

Poems by Claude Thomas

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