Camps Of War

Going to the camps and wars is like a frightening message,
One kept the message of goodness in the heart of reality.
Blind and bored, the camps are fighting the houses of fire,
Lulling the shouting and collapsing the mastered shelves of books,
Robust from the fires of a bygone generation.
Reading claimed a fire and a horse to ride on,
Internal anxiety has alarmed, and writing is episodic.
Losing the ample time is like drizzling with rain,
The wars of a day are like the water of tomorrow,
A triple gesture rounds up the number of the raindrops.
Camps are like cigars to some of us, for some they repel,
And yet they attract.

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