Dusting gun powders,
digging buried bomb shrapnels,
dark road of hate clears.
i have a pocketful of folded paper cranes,
inked with agony, worry, fear of my boneless brain.
numb, loss, i’ll wander, maybe after i watch them burn.
Carefully choosing among the sharp, the hard, the brute and the bad,
my shaking hand grazes the powerful tools’ varied edges
as it discerns what it’ll use to you and your mistress.
©2016 Rosemawrites@A Reading Writer. All Rights Reserved.
Photo credit: Ashim D’Silva
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