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Portrait of the Artist as a Lone Tree


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Remembering times repeated

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Are you my son, my little boy?
You visit me within a dream;
they tell me I should fight again,
but then I wake, and scream.
The hopelessness of fighting lies,
all lost for weapons sharp to bite
in courts that care for nothing else
but gibberish and spite
that hopelessness is real to me;
not now and then, but all the while.
I live as if the lights go out
when other people smile.
For what we had and what we want
count nothing in the scheme of things;
the only truth is fathers lose,
and children cease to sing.

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