In the morning

when your thoughts seem guided

by some frenzied Army general

bashing on a typewriter,

every letter dropping

another grenade

into the war zone,

your rationality weaving

through the steel raindrops

of every vowel and consonant

that makes up your fear

until finally

the general takes a moment,


to let his fingers rest

so yours can take over

with a gentle “tap, tap, tap”

sending snowflakes down

to settle over the scars

left by the explosions.

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