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pilateTo John Sweet's previous piece     on the occasion of atrocities committed in the name of freedomTo John Sweet's next piece

quiet song, early afternoon

the body found seven days later
in the back seat of a car

the killer caught
two thousand miles away
and the morning arriving without hope

damp sunlight and grey clouds

the shadows of powerlines
down silent streets

and it's here that
i run out of things to give you

it's here that i
run out of promises and
out of lies
and i never knew the victim

never worried about
these small tragedies until i
had children of my own and by then
cobain was a ghost and
my own father a handful of ashes

my own future seen with
a newfound brutal 

everything i held
suddenly stained

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