the camp is closed,
though i still there,
a truth now lost to him
release the threads of uniform
to spool and find again.
my hawk flies high
as boots walk low
a mind to un-quagmire,
there is no helping such a man
he must that journey tire.
tragedy will mould the skin
`tis as the cycle goes,
inner instinct will push forth
so put the mind away,
and find a choice of north.
`t. imaan tretchicovmanicova
25jun11
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