My uncle kept writing a poem,
Entitled "Why," dedicated
To the Almighty. In it, he wrote
Of statues that could move,
Hidden and dark; damp,
With a bit of wishes
Undisturbed. (This flux,
While turbulent,
Is meaningless.) I told him
Not to worry; this happens
To more people
Than you could imagine.
This is bigger than us.
Somehow, I don't believe
He can equate the concept
Of the ocean being the sea.
This could possibly explain
How his statues always held
Stained blue-red roses,
Or how, by the end,
He would always ask why
Every city must be Jerusalem.















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--
Every bigot was once a child free of prejudice. Sister Mary de Lourdes
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