Daphne Nye

Found Poetry

We drive as if in a dream.
Slow-wit second-born.
Grenades blooming,
And to those children,
Waiting, waiting
to be seen.
Words, keep drumming
Words, crushed under our tires
to those waiting children,
Who can outdo,
Who is perfect.
Rosy red dream.
Jokes lie still in our throats.

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