Many Nights Ago

The flowers outside my window do not cry anymore.


When the war first began, and the weeds took over, they danced about;

stretching their roots—perhaps to see how long they could endure it.

That and the shrieking kept me up at night.


But that was many nights ago.

Now they fall in line—silently, with heads hung—single file.


The only sound I hear, is the “tap, tap, tap” on my windowpane.

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