The terror of new day,
laced with abandonment,
hope burned to a crisp,
my outstretched hand
just another piece of junk --
I try to rise
with the sun.
The world lies,
giving a flush of welcome
and then,
the boot --
all the crueler for memory of
first sweetness.
So, before you speak to me
of the lofty and the spiritual,
please be sure that it was not
the heel of your boot
which already smashed
my hand.
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