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Image for the poem The Guardians

The Guardians

Head bent in Kabbalah
Yet Buddha still ask the questions of why
Lost in the sovereign of this earth’s strife
The bullets ring out
Plague, diseases, owns the breath of life
I look toward the hills asking God for relief
Thy broken ten commitments
Has separated us from thee
One more day, cries heard in the final hours
Lives among a chaotic midst flat-lining
Money does not matter, unto the reaper your soul lacks buying power
We are praying in the name of a Deity locked on our knees
We stand in the hour of deliverance
An imminent death certificate we sign with a cough, fever, or a sneeze
Closing my eyes, attuned of better days in my dreams
Fields of poppies, lilacs, violets
Beautiful rivers and flowing streams
The alarm clock rings
Birds chipping with a morning song they sing
Yet more bodies pilling on manmade palates
Cremation, without the bling
Mask is the new designer wear
Hair tousled moving about to scurry for toilet paper
Unconscious vanity does not even care
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