adventures in dysthymia

Sunday, November 11, 2012

Terrorist, a poem

TERRORIST

Love was terror, my heart
hiding itself in fear
while you hunted it

down the winding crazy
streets of an empty city.
I felt too strongly then.

I had no ready weapon
other than the suicide
of waking to the day

where you, true believer,
followed through the shadows.
I should have shot back.

Stephen Brooke ©2012

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