When all the guns are buried

When all the guns are buried
my face will swell like
bubble gum
ready to pop
on a surface
of lips yielding
to love – dance motions.

When all the uniforms are unstitched
my hands will rub like
wishes come true
my genie smiling
from that magic pot.

When all the people gather
to bid the plague adieu
I will rise like a statue crowned
my hand clasped in a rosary prayer
leaning towards a vision –
I’ll see it –
a serenity never moved.




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