one Sunday morning in the year of our Lord

rain stuck in the gutter mud needles even glittered pine cones from Taiwan congregate in rubbish soup
lines long at city hall and the soup kitchens too Star Bucks forget it i might as well be gone
yet i love her like a mother loves her son when the battle of the souls is lost
pinpoint to the time when spewing truths out of our lungs picket signs pro this con that
here we receive old boxes filled with wasted time to keep forever under downpours of collective pain

3 thoughts on “one Sunday morning in the year of our Lord

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