Your Own Flag

Thu, 05/15/2014 - 12:24 -- Arcadia

A stop-plosive consonant tumbles from your lips;

rubble of an articulated arch pressed your tongue,

                to the hard pallet.

It finishes with a long drawn sickle of a vowel

and leaves nothing but,

                misunderstanding and hypocrisy in its wake.

Your legs seek to stand just as tall as the man beside you.

Your stride grows longer

and you still fail to see the colors of your own flag.


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