London Poem: Day 328

11 July

The sound, though unlived,
Still creaks under the slow
Stutter, with which it’s name
Is whispered. The mother cries
At a life unknown to her; the word,
Still stained with a blood blind
To it’s grain, and through it all
The earth continues its precise revolution.
How do you escape the whispered
Chatter of a history never lived?
There is only walking,
With a soft tear,
On and on and on.

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Published by

keelancrampsey

In flux

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