C. I. Meade


Epitaph - Poem by C. I. Meade

You die for the first time but certainly not the last time when your mother burns, taking it all.
So you, the righteous man, grow up crooked, abyssal and tall.
You grow up with a cage around you in the shape of your brother, a gun, and a father who is more like some half-absent god who never heard you pray.
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