Fear Mongering Clouds

I can hear a child

out of the anaemic silence

of the sun’s warp, daydreaming

in the dark Classroom’s depth

a child,

begot and beaten into learning

how to live behind the blood’s

bottled confusion of skin,

The endless conflict

of a porous bruise,

leaking into morning’s ritual

of Mamas laying out makaa

out of the fire of yesterday,

Hens cluck songs from fear

and men hear the struck screams

of themselves, distantly-

in the choral playground of today’s

concealed imitation of tomorrow,

games are stone scratched

on the sands of the moon, blind

folded hopscotch frames

in which to resolve

But tell me when, when

does one ever grow up?

to become perfectly chiral

to the prism jar, glassed

in the existence

of a hemorrhagic past?

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