I did not have the patience,
so I put it in a poem. My mind
would not allow paragraphs
with extended periods of dialogue,
so I stuffed the story into verse.
I could not express the thought
of fifty years ago, so I pulled along
some metaphors to help the task.
We were lost and tasting bitter
fruit from the crimes of a hundred
years ago, wondering if the soil
was really worth our souls.
We marveled at the casual manner
others had when destroying, by word
or hand, the lives of other people.
Though different, though with diverse
cadence and art, they still looked
like people, like me, like all.
Yet they burned and were never given
the leisure I have bathed in.
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