deepundergroundpoetry.com
He would call it his own
Two men sit and drink
perched upon a mountain
and while they drink
one says to the other
I have things now
that rest beside me
when I sleep at times
corners peek out from bedding
that feel like comfort to my ribs
a pebble stolen from the shore
is smooth when seen through tired eyes
and a blanket more holes than warmth
I have these things now
and they are a part of me
tearful rivers of brotherly fathers
flow down opposing slopes
and the other man asks
but what if the house
where these things lives
burns to the ground
and the wind runs wild
through the ashes?
perched upon a mountain
and while they drink
one says to the other
I have things now
that rest beside me
when I sleep at times
corners peek out from bedding
that feel like comfort to my ribs
a pebble stolen from the shore
is smooth when seen through tired eyes
and a blanket more holes than warmth
I have these things now
and they are a part of me
tearful rivers of brotherly fathers
flow down opposing slopes
and the other man asks
but what if the house
where these things lives
burns to the ground
and the wind runs wild
through the ashes?
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