When August Begins To Burn

Scratch our story into skin

flip my pages thin

you’ll never forget me.


Justify my every move

to conform to nothing in my

naked mind.


You assure me I’m alive

by squeezing my soul taut

my hope springs a leak.


I’ve had no faith in fate

it grates my mind to paste.


But your expert tips of fingers

sweep what’s left of me into

some heart-shaped box.


They sew my eyelids back

to see the rising sun.


I owe you everything

for creating something living

out of me.        

This poem is about: 
My family
My community
My country
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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