Somewhere in the tumulous, the cumulous,
the ramble of my…
The currency of current affairs
is flame
fire that burns roof, shelter
heat that distorts, destroys
the reason—lobe of the brain…
throwers of the flame are also
subject to its destruction
This is a jotted poem on scrap paper by mom, undated (but late). I
started to add the word “mind” to the end of the second line, but realized that
it not being there was likely the point.
Moreover the ellipsis is there in her hand.
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