Thursday, October 15, 2009

playground school bell rings again. rain clouds come to play again.




Scars on desks are deep blue etchings


scratched onto wood skin.




But scars on a youthful child wrist,


a violated child body,


are a deeper red


scraped and scraped


and scraped


onto tender peach skin.


Burned into brittle bodies


and tattooed inside soft, impressionable minds


with swords


far sharper than cultured spears,


more powerful than


countless voices


dis


united


and mightier than


the lawless pens


that print


meaningless


black


on white,


merely glancing through


the dull


and uncertain


grey.

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