Matyr Poem by Lawrie Stuart Ronton

Lawrie Stuart Ronton

Lawrie Stuart Ronton

An Industrial City in a shoddily assembled one-floored house.

Matyr



Not mine, his.
Views half clear
yet shattered by ice.
The Matyr sits.

It cries,
It may start a fire,
Could be wrong.
The sign he says,
Shows no song.

Religious gathering,
People fall.
To the claws,
of his maul.

There's no stopping.
The Matyr,
Strong, Strength, Super,
He is not alarmed.

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Lawrie Stuart Ronton

Lawrie Stuart Ronton

An Industrial City in a shoddily assembled one-floored house.
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