For the country I love

 

Watch the people building their monuments of applause after the first pinch
the raisin taken away and caught again
sitting open palm, teaming with moist, supple skin
and we plant inside of them, again and again
you can see them, stacking each trophy on the pile
sitting alone and waiting.  this is the rubble we call home
this is the pencil to its oar, shifting across a single page without its book
it is the turn of the wrist, with the water splashing
it is us continuing amongst them in haste,
missing the bends, our feet carried high above the ground
watch.  the current behind us lingers, carrying the prizes of faith
this is what we left behind, along with what covers us
this is what we may never find again.
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