I am eight

Then I am twelve.

Each carries my face.

In danger I sleep in fear.

I have two windows

Each with a view of the year.

It is the dawn

Of nineteen sixty eight.

I am as sad as a priest.

Over my nest hangs a flag,

I place all my faith in a tree.

I am ridding myself at last

Of all I have done.

And thus I was so.

This was all of fifty years ago.

Unlocking the passage

One more time,

I drift through

And approach the gate.

Chris Thompson copyright 2019

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