War Child

short poem

Mortality is never 
too serious for you. 

You like picking up
seaglass brittles or
sitting five feet apart 
from a war torn town
forgotten to be 
blown down. You
like picking up magnolias
adjusted in the womb or
weeping for the madman
in the tomb. 
Big nothing of dulled stars
ahead. Enough treachery,
shoot a paper machete instead