Sunday, May 24, 2020

Give The Anarchist A Cigarette


In The Hour Of His Darkest Need

For as far back as he could recall, there was one thing that always brought him comfort. The words that rang true and glowed like burning coal. Words that heralded hope, proclaimed love, celebrated loss, embraced shattered faith, and shook a finger at corruption. Words that carried his broken self to lonesome side-streets, waterfront docks, and beauty parlors filled with sun-pecked faces. Words that caressed with a singular voice, a knowing wink, and left in their wake a warm, seemingly all-knowing security.

Words by Lee Greenfeld © 2020

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