Keeper’s Haiku

Like the red pencil

That’s carried around always,

Easily erased.

 

Like the old pencil

That you still have in your bag

Blunt, but not broken.

 

Inconsiderable,

Never jeopardizing space,

Don’t dispose of me.

Mother City Haiku

Each morning, I wait

Behind the two iron gates,

Like a caged-up bird

 

When I step outside

The sun rays remind me that

My skin’s a template

 

Locking up, I think

How fences seem offensive,

Almost violent

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