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Upon the pillow of complaisance
I rest my head tonight.

Closing a book by my bedstand
and sipping some tepid tea
I switch off the lights
without thought for others
who are being
gagged, raped, starved or beaten –
people not so different from me.

With fresh, warm sheets over my body
and a soft, feathered pillow under my head
only one question lingers vaguely
in the darkness:

"Is my conscience
really make of lead?"

the tiny bedrooms of our being
and clean isolation of thin sheets
this world is naked & screaming.

I like this poem, even though I do not understand it. How can you make a statement like that? Well, most things that I understand clearly I no longer really like.
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Copyright (c) 1988, 2009 by T Newfields. All rights reserved.
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