The flutter of eagle wings
and crayons of many colors scratched into
wet pavement absolving our sins
wiping the slate clean yet again
misty mornings greeted by a brew
and a thousand candles lit to illuminate
the view over the edge of an ancient canyon
greeted by the sound of flowers blooming
the blood of a scholar or the ink of a martyr?
or perhaps its the other way around
and the violin cries for failed marriages
and doomed engagements
between the politics, policies,
and subtle banter we all took for granted
the rhythm of a newborn's heart
beating to the sound of a newly
discovered fish living in tropic waters
as it swims neither here nor there
but in a steady stream of circles
orchestrated by a wooden guitar
the blood of a martyr or the ink of a scholar?
we ponder this question; such a waste
as a guardian loosens the tie around his collar
watching a little girl place flowers on a grave
now a permanent home to the love
memories, and legacy of her dead father
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