It's hard to learn from the past
When we store it so far below the surface,
Denying that it happened.
Here lies the predictability:
Land mines hidden once every mile
Detonated by our slow plodding forward,
Hand over hand bloody cartwheels in the air
So that when we land, stand up,
Facing a different direction,
It's over. Behind us, out of sight,
We forget where to dig
To protect the people who follow us.
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