ichor and the things to live for


A leather jacket,
a bouquet of roses,
two glasses of wine filled to the brim.
Then, a baby's gurgle.

Thick soled shoes crunch into the dirt, the snow
Faces creased and fists clenched;
an invulnerable physiognomy–
Daylight warriors.

Soon, a forgotten gravestone.
The name still etched by never uttered
A bouquet of roses at its gnarled feet, wilted long ago
Then, a baby's gurgle.

A hand pulls away from the trigger,
knuckles bloodied and aching.
There's a cry of relief–
Midnight warriors.

Sweaty hands meet awkwardly.
Someone is shot, a woman screams
A mother lets out a breathy sigh.
It's her baby, it's her baby.

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