i follow the script
made with young hands
that don't comprehend
their surgery to save a dying tongue
as their find their own
underneath fire escapes slick with rain
amidst brick faces pointed with indifference
that seem to to deem them far worse hooligans
than those splayed on tabloid covers
my eyes
connect the art of this language
interpreted in art markers
and the burning wish
to be immortal
their bombs
may never mean more harm
than those dropped in the name of ideals
traded like blankets and trinkets
but they linger better
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