poetry by John Sweet
art by Dee Rimbaud

The Pull of Angels

the picture framed
feels the pull
of angels

the baby sleeps
while the father
counts the walls

this is
the simpler time

the war has been won
the mass graves not yet

a soft breeze through
the screens

and i am
the father here
and i have absolved
myself of all guilt

the walls are strong
the doors always

the hands refuse to
call their actions

they speak of
security instead
and the baby is small
against the flat grey
expanse of
the past

and i am not
the god of crows

i am not the man who
taught you
to bleed in silence

there is hope
for us yet

Holes Torn in the Fabric of Reality by Dee Rimbaud


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