On the last day of the year,
twelve hours and twenty-eight
minutes to go, I'm writing poems,
dreading and avoiding for awhile
the slaughter, the faces that
have had their life stolen while
I live the last gray day in peace,
drinking my coffee beside
a computer, in a world of words,
and not of bodies desperately
being dug from under the rubble,
their eyes unseeing, that saw
the darkness of the last day
but not its end, to be buried
in makeshift graveyards before
the year changes, if recovered,
but for those who yet survive
nothing changes, except
their grief, growing beyond
the bind of count on calendars,
accumulating in layers of loss.
31.12.2024
Verse #Verse Poetry #Poetry Poems #Poems Poem #Poems
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