Lifeless words remain scattered pebbles on bloodied Pacific shores
Unwritten thoughts lie breathless, paralyzed
Undead remains of unfinished chores
The fire was hot, its scream was short
Twenty-two seconds before the final hour
The reporter was silenced, dead, on the beach of Okinawa.
His typewriter sits on my desk
Sunlit by an open drape
Its letters were worn
More than others
Four smeared with blood.
What final story
Was my friend attempting
In the echo of
Machine guns blare?
At the red stained keys
… And cried.
Warm winds wisp o’er sea bleached sand on tranquil Pacific shores
I stand amid undefined thoughts, sails with no wind
Undead hopes in search of new chores
Daybreak’s breeze was cool and calm was its voice
Twenty-two seconds before my first hour
I heard the last word typed on the beach of Okinawa
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