Monday, 4 November 2013


Along the broken hall,
In the broken bathroom
Of a broken home,
There he is slouched.

His bleak, vacant eyes gazing lazily at me;
The eyes of someone close.

The little boy speaks with a man’s voice
“I saw him standing over her-
A puddle of blood.”

I try my best to pick him up,
But I drop him.
I try my best to carry him
But I am too weak,
I cannot carry him,

I cannot carry-

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