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 Tamara Beryl Latham - The Poet

My Brother's Blood (The Karen Roper Story)

I can hear the ravens scream
through that lonely prison cell,
streaked vermilion with his blood
in early dawn.
I find ebon silhouettes
eclipse the edges of my mind -
their evil daggers clutched
by crimson hands.
While footprints set in stone
turn fluid as liquid gold,
then run into the night
without a trace.
I am my brother's blood,
though he lies in sweet repose,
a mirror that reflects
his wrongful case.

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