Sunday, March 16, 2014

Poem From A Secret War, 2557

I’m telling you
This poem is science fiction
To keep you safe.

Not a word of trouble
About the “could have been”
Questions that get you killed.

But for a brief moment, we are
Imagining together. Reading.
What have I written?
We switch places like magic.

I become you.
You become me, briefly, returned
By the time it takes to finish.

Lips secretly moving
After work,before bed.

Or perhaps it’s a weekend.
Our states are questionable.

Encounters are funny.
Today, they are not lethal.

Honestly, I imagine you found me
Strictly by chance, more than choice.

In my tongue, you detect no rhyme.
In your tongue, this poem is not a crime.

I buried this poem on a page
Among words you seem destined to read
All of the way to the end.

I will mention great old ones and stars
No one objects to,
Except ghosts. Phi.

You will dismiss this,
And I will regret

This discussion, this fantasy,
This vague recollection of conflict
Can give you

No heroes

Except those you make
For yourself.

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