Tumbled down hungry words laid out on a page;
a procession of ink lined refugees
desperate busted around, from here to where they started,
looking for a home. And what does that make me?
A desperate word smuggling bandito
trying to steal a stanza in between the seen
and what you don't, before some beady bastard reason
shuts the door and calls words uttered treason.
Yet they are only words looking to find a home,
a thousand shades of life in black and white;
sure, sometimes sore, bedraggled, foreign things,
clattered out and scribbled down;
a scrap of overcrowded paper sure to sink;
sometimes sounding with a jarring ring beyond your recognition.
But maybe you need your borders breached this way,
with words like these, seeds in cracks,
hope breaking through dismay, too pregnant
to do anything but undermine
your fused jaw not enough that cannot breath.
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