Monday, February 24, 2014



A blind man sits
on the steps to his breathless house.
A dried up farmer holding a box.

This box
contains all that is left
of his life.

He keeps it in a box
so it doesn’t degrade him.
The shiny metallic finish
reflects his face,
showing the lines building
around sunken depressions of skin.
A box with his son’s bones,
the medals of his glorious             
effort to stay alive that failed.
A father knows all who are born must to die.
Promises of victory echoed sounds of tormented pride.
Like stolen stars from a crooked sky.