Blood is real, not thicker than water;
the treachery starts in the “family”
and ends in a poor woman’s kitchen.
A flower struggling to be free above her stove.
She keeps it – because she knows:
that, too, is real
So what emerged beneath the waves,
Crawled to make a street
A horse carriage to a humvee,
Somewhere in between
Your hand with no lines to read
So you highlight
On the grave.
…what started with a bang
Ends not w/ a whimper
But a muted
A rebellion lost
Within the mind.