they are our own


through all of the chaos
piercing the lips of my poetry

duped by the light of hope that never comes in
through the inquiry of the nearly defeated

as all the leaders play with paper dolls and tin soldiers

fear the tyrants rant

our beliefs become lies beaten and drummed by time

alone and lost down  those dusty roads

and then the lost have to decide

to cross borders of the unknown

did we hear

are those cries and shrieks at night

is it pain from all of the refugees we hear




are they our own

they are our own

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allets's picture


making it to Greece and being sent back. Shrieks indeed! Ours indeed.