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a poem by Brenton Booth


It's not until the eyes fall out
that the pictures start rolling,
it's not until the absolute midnight
that the sun makes real sense,
it's not until tomorrow
that yesterday has any real meaning,
it's not until the call has finished
that you hear what was said,
it's not until war
that we understand peace,
it's not until murder
that we understand the potential
of life;
it's not until the phone is off,
the rent is paid,
the apartment is empty,
the stomach is full,
the bed is alone,
the need is gone,
the hope is gone,
the fear is gone,
the desire is gone,
the games are gone,
the only way is gone:
that everything starts to make
any real sense.

© by Brenton Booth
Gutter Eloquence Magazine ~ Issue #24 ~ Nov 2012