his hat, his lock, still smells of him...
two man-made birds
on flights of death
two man-made eyes
take one last breath
two-thousand plus
are laid to rest
two worldly wars
two vows of peace
two million souls
to say the least
two million shrouds
drape those deceased
two paths in life
one road to take
forever two choices
never to fates
too close to now
too near to wait
maybe tomorrow
maybe too late
"TWO"
written by my father, R.H. Austin
p.i.p
3.19.53 - 1.26.12
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