deepundergroundpoetry.com
Pleas, Bring My Child Home
(the) pain in process
progressing
in black-hole soul (of)
inhumanity,
(but so excuseable)
as to be mistaken as bloody riotous,
as erroneous as bliss'ed remorselessness.
What
are these mothers on the corner at the
bus-stop
waiting for?
No doubt the children who may
or may not, be coming
home
today.
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