bennett Lottman


For What?

Hearts filled with holes and gashes.
Our headstones lined with dates and dashes.
To all of us a right of passage only masked by the end.
What is a friend?
What do we count on?  
A piece of paper and pen, our hands, the clock,  
watching the sun drift across the sky
Wishing this minute, hour, day would end!
But to what end?  

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