it begs then, to reinvent.
to begin again. not being
what was. it gathers
those rain clouds. sunny
elsewhere. we want to shine.
and way too long have we
missed, out of sight. hindsight
disappears in reared views
mirrored by this
tortured culture. we
look for hope, but, like
where?
we beggar our beliefs, lie
in a child’s face. what
world is this? it that is
born. infancies, toddles,
falls decades headlong
downhill until death do its part.
where do you find this
life along the way?
discounted, taxed, lotteried,
tuitioned, or miracled, or maybe
in the trash? this world.
which one is this?
billions of them. under threat.
imposing. at war over the way
you want to die. with life
somewhere between the lies.
these beliefs. we the beggars.
and it begs reinvention.
or something.
backwards vision of some
redemption.
or we die, lying
to the children.
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