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FREEDOMWAYS    FOURTH QUARTER 1966 

that burst and vanish
one against the other
ere they touch
the dull and broken edges
of eroded human souls.

They stand there gawking.
Eyes hard against
the wondrous, golden span
that oratory built
across the raw abyss
that separates the status quo
from Shangrila.

So is their emptiness compounded
as they cheer
and frenzied
fling their hats a moment . . .
ere they grow silent
and go weeping back
to empty lives they have not left.



RELEASE

Come to me gently, O Death . . .
Cool, with the comfort of evening
Wipe from the rim of my brow
The sweat of oppression and sorrow
Fold on the wreck of my breast
(That once heaved with suppressed emotion)
Gnarled, ugly hands that have known
Toil in the muck of life's trenches
Hands that have toiled without pay
Under the false lash of color
Fold them together, O Death
Upon my breast in peace.

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Transcription Notes:
---------- Reopened for Editing 2024-02-09 16:47:54 ---------- Reopened for Editing 2024-02-09 17:05:56