Sewing

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Romanian Roses.

When I leave you, precious island

I forget I understand

that not all is well on our poor earth

not right in many lands.

The beauty of these mountains

 the flowers bright and true

make guilty of the wanting

to quietly return to you.

From the visage of hotel rooms

I have seen the world in full

i am amputating leg room

because I cannot save you all

the goddamn hurt that people do

to other people amongst them

is a dark tattoo, a scar so true

i wonder about the women.

why don’t we rise in anger?

why don’t we talk in church?

And about the world and it’s poor state?

why are our excuses in a lurch?

i do not truck with churches much

but now I’m thinking twice

as devisive as I may have been

the option seems quite nice

Could I believe in something so hardcore

that dying was not scary?

Could I become something unshrugged

that humanity could unswary?

The fists have blown

my mind unsewn

the sunshine coming in.

The old world is waking up again,

perhaps I should invite her in.

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