We seem to be islands,
where waters beg for the kind of
peace seen in children eyes.

How do you pass this on?
Metal is made to
cut flesh, sometimes,
less is essential in no name towns where
some exist
in pure desires
unknown,
so maybe they can tell the child why the real toy tank toils with flesh.
The blood stained grass doesn’t know
and we
seem to
forget that
real toy guns break dreams grown fresh from youth,
clean,
as lead lines can tell on papers to teary eyed receivers.

Families sit around tables
where wishes for money welds souls to nickels
and with weighty
prayers
and with eyes open to shut minds,
we see that no heaven would be a jukebox

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