Dawn pierces a somber man's sanctuary,
with blinding rays through thick morning haze,
Red gold reflection
of the Blind's last defense —
the last best hope for darkness
A bald man comes in for a haircut.
he speaks of the news —
a radio station — with a static voice
and talks of the daily web of scandals,
spun and spun —
The ongoing battles we've won,
the war we're told is far from done.
He rattles away — a ticker-tape nightmare —
Breaking the morning's quiet calm,
and loses yesterday's news,
as tomorrow he'll lose today's.
The somber man tunes out the propaganda,
the empty banter —
Television's temporary attention and
Radio's unreliable memory,
with their forgotten fallen front-runners,
superstar rapists and madmen terrorists.
he touches one of many newspaper clippings
on the wall — shrine of permanence —
Yellowing and crinkling over the
humid sun-bathed years.
The dry rough pages of a lifetime,
Stories from every section.
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