and roses are a poor religion,
but no worse than alcohol and no
worse than writing and probably
better than god
in the dream,
the rain won’t stop
a baby cries while the walls melt
and then awake into the
brutal sunlight of late june
it’s easy
you’re a writer
until you decide to stop
until the decision is made for you
no one stands christlike in
the room of murdered children
no one is born
believing in hatred
you either accept this as the
truth, or you go blind
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