often, I ask this
question to the mirror,
the world where I live,
‘why don't you simply
drop the weapons, stop
the wars, destroy the guns’
why'd you have to
image the dead
…
it cracks, yet doesn't reflect
for years, it lost being what
it was, it doesn’t obey, a lion
shows up as a lamb, a hippo
as a kangaroo, it disfigures
any appearance
in utter despair, I walk
up to the mountains
I screech, my voice
bleeds in easy words;
the bridges collapse,
the walls stand strong and tall
roads crash, paths under the
livid sun, shadowless, clueless
the sound doesn't follow, I hear a different echo
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