Smoking Son

Hallelujah to the
deathknell
of
everything that fell
around us,
bruises asphalt dealt us,
dust and blood,

smoking guns and spent casings that sent my heartbeat racing through a hole at its crux, before they were ditched in canals and dropped to the bottom of currents facing south.

And if you can contain
my spirit, seeping from
my chest,

I’ll abstain
from manmade doubt to

forever be
your tourniquet,
a ripped fabric in your debt.

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