Among the Streets, Thickets and Thorns

By John Gregory Evans

© 5/12/2020 5:56:33 AM

I once knew two men who ran among the streets, thickets, and thorns,

spreading the likes of themselves through gates of hell, ivory horns, thus,

INK’g away bad seeds of scorn, around their auras shined only as worn.

I had heard they came from Gallipoli, or perhaps Tripoli, or none of these.

Perhaps in all cases, and all places it was here in Shar-on among the streets

where ancient buildings, and glass houses began to crumble, nigh into the

ages for generations to arrive, crippled by the other kind, or in knocking down

a beehive with angry honeybees aspiring to survive.

Men, of distant sorrows, rising upward, as the Virginia Creeper ‘tween the Rose of Sharon, red, white, and pink as a mother’s love for her child, asleep.

Poetry as she was meant to be experienced, lived out by the poet’s ear, another day of memoir from reminiscent realities.

Today, though, my survival with the pen, revolutionized, depends upon a kind stranger

from a foreign land.

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