Poem Hunter
Locks On A Closed Door Eventually Rust
(February/'47 / Connecticut, USA)

Locks On A Closed Door Eventually Rust

Poem By Lawrence S. Pertillar

Why turn your back on atrocities now?
Like thick and wicked pricks,
On a path uncleared in a forest that sits...
You and I and those who spy,
Are surrounded and in the midst of it.

Where did you believe you could go,
To enjoy a way of life without stones thrown?
Or find a clearing suited for your uninvolvement!
Even locks on a closed door eventually rust.
And no one alive escapes dust!

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