It unfolds like a used blanket full of pondering question marks. We tromped through dirty fields the year before, and now we scatter like frightened mice in cat-filled troughs. Our hearts beat wildly as we pray for a calendar without war embroidered into it. We are shocked into meekness.
We slept under a thin blanket as fireworks and promises exploded. Now we fold the blanket and tuck it neatly away. We tell ourselves we are safe. We are lulled by by a great machine, the same machine that promised victory before every march, centuries ago.
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Shelby Londyn-Heath 