Crass Costumes Dreams Wore

Deep down in the marrow of costumed bone

lies the lonely bastion where hope might roam

 

she cloaks herself in mercy’s skin,

constructing strength, as warmth, from within

 

scores the walls to scale the rain

before the river dries within the drain

 

hips akimbo, straddling the lands

once stoked and carved by swaying hands—

 

it’s more than stubborn brow,

it’s something less than the weight of a farmer’s plough;

 

yet prisoners don it day by day

with gloved flesh, lest humanity wash away.

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