My Wreath

It's difficult to speak of these moments of timber.

It is as if a burning ember glows from beneath the bog.

A city, a young life, all that differs?

Not one from the other; the lights shall prove,

the wicked alley's, the dirty back doors.


Passages and Tunnels always stay.


Clearing weight, heaviness and doom.
Shoulders bury the six foot stooge.
Guns pointed, bullets flew,
not mine, I saw straight threw.


Kindly, wisely, he spoke to you.
Remembering differences shining through.
A man, no home, no identity.
My mind, my soul, my disheartened grief.


No! I shant not, no cardboard relief.


Death is too real, it comes from beneath.
His eyes, I don't wander.
Stay close, hold your feet.


Painful, Sorrowful, 
moments need a name,
not a number, 666,
I'm the Beast!!


As per my mother,
my families,
My Wreath.

4/5/2011

Karen A. Placek