by Mike Acker
Why do they call me,
They, whose names
I can’t pronounce properly?
They don’t just call, they scream.
Their eyes have tired of seeing
the grey smoke and leveled lands.
Why can’t they just take it like
millions of others
now black letters in history books?
Some are even whole chapters.
What can I do?
What could I have ever done?
Is it unfair that I went left
and not right or down, as they have?
We make our own beds, don’t we?
That is why we must lie in them.
But, everywhere I look, I must
see them, because to ignore them
is to ignore myself, which is the same
as running to the final edge,
the sharp one on which our minds
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