Conflict

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I settled in conflict
and made it my home.
I covered the chairs
with old torn rags and washed the
dented wooden floors;
I washed the chipped dishes and
dug a nice hole.
Where I put the garden which was dull and
never bloomed and inside-
inside there was my room.
And to the right lie my window which overlooked the dead grass;
once freshly cut and intensely green.
The sky was twisted
and it bordered all the things,
all the places
I’d never seen.
All the places I wanted to see.
All the places I wish I could be.
Maybe resolution resided there,
in an admirable building;
in a quaint little town.
Or maybe in the city
appealing and luminous,
aside the dusty beach
the roaring waves
the fresh salty air,
right there.
Right there.





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