tears prick the eyes,
these tiny knives, not yet
released to the cheek, the
bitter drops collected in cupped hands
even the back of the brain
cannot comprehend
this sorrow, the hearts
run through with swords
glinting like the bullet-flash
that brought our loved ones low,
flesh of our flesh, our
children, behind walls of
bricks and books and
papers left unwritten, the
proctor smiles and says
time's up
the sand run through already?
it cannot be, but is
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