War Paint

This sensation overtakes me,/I feel my infancy,/birthed in peril,/with the illusion of rain./Later affirmed, in many stages,/a touch in swirls of forgiveness./All assembled grin at gift packages:/they are there to get a taste/of the record of victory./But they cannot help,/but beseech one another,/to wear their war paint. /Saying in unison-See here, witness our possession/we’re, clean but broken,/from the time of our leave taking,/ until our return./I crossed the same ground/in the rise of vapor,/in a stroll under rain./Pitted against this volley,/approximate in number,/to what the season tenderly reckons/-I told them then, as I tell you now/-if you got an itch, you scratch it./I lay claim/to what they removed/pleased by the horizon.

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