rent.
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.
Silent.
Like
stolen stars from a crooked sky.
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