• Vol. 06
  • Chapter 04
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No chance of a selfie

I can't hold you at arm's length
to show my son his lost friend
you have crossed the line.

You ate at my table, we drank wine,
we lingered long nights, deliberating
discussing, yes disagreeing.

We balanced on the kitchen table,
our moral platform wobbling under
angry debate.

Never the need to reach for
a tooled up pocket.

Now you stand victim of a crippled
culture, your face has a wall, you are
holding a wall, you are a wall.

Mine will be the face that haunts,
you have gas, bullets, a uniform,
I have a voice, but no bread.

Face up, your move.