Witching Hour Poet EP 2: THE BUNKER (Ghost Island of Corregidor)


Shrapnel, whole sunlight shafts impale the gloom. Bent on door constellations inches thick. Perforated delicate lace on dulled by decades doubled in grief weeping rust confetti for lost brides to be imagined weddings treasured scenes dead. unfulfilled. Gems held precious in aged minds, ju to the cruelties of this space. By, God's grace I. Hope they now play out in some prayed for parallel. Scott. Concrete walls brazen scroll anointed to clear the lives of those once loved and now forgotten testimonies of the extinguished names fresh as youth of folks back home from sea to shining sea girlfriends, wives, Dream Hollywood lovers long since dead. All born over oceans kept in hearts and wide eyed night thoughts of teenage soldiers and still ship coffins. Names closest to the delicate door see dawn and dusk sent tropical trade winds that sometimes deaths way the trees dense now, bombs churn soil to rubble. Third and cloaks broken tooth ruins to merge like lost mine temples, obliterated barracks, bombed hospital. The Old Movie Theater Concession Stand awaits moviegoer jostling. Specter's who gather when my sight is turned. Officers quarters hold towed filled craters on loans where children played. Names deeper in the dock begged to be read. To be remembered. Brought to life. They Beckon me. Then need for witness burns my eyes.

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