Clumps of Grass Prattle Their Stories

Hidden in your revolver where brass nestles steel
resides a remembrance of old grievance.

The dead are unidentified in field reports.
Primitive landscapes keep no letters from the wind.

You attempt to leash wolves with words and reports
but the reports of rifles kill their stories.

Betraying the truth is part of your conquest—
library stacks fill with false histories and narratives.

The mind reading through a thousand page cover-up
finds the bare bones.

Hidden in your diary where pen scratches page
an admission of your craven fears and ambitions resides.

copyright © 2023 Kenneth P. Gurney

2 thoughts on “Clumps of Grass Prattle Their Stories

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