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Who will lock the door
or leap in front of the jacketed
bullet. Nor is it four words
born in lust and camouflaged
with piety. No one cares
if you blink or continue
breathing. No one knows
what you think. Nothing
matters. Not the pen
in her hand or your finger
on the trigger. Not the crying
and the dead and the stains
in the hallway, the man
in the street hiding behind
himself. The question
is no question, but an answer
struggling to emerge. Never
formed, never truly complete.
Copyright 2018 Robert Okaji
his work is some of my favorite on WP
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