Broken Conflicts

This started as the word CONFLICTS, which my year sevens and I treated as a string of letters from which to make other words. We then put these words into a poem.

It started with a bunch of coins –
A silly thing not worth the stress.
I stopped before he reached for foils
And struck his jaw hard with my fist.
He came one night and held a slit;
An angled dagger in his hand.
The dagger rests now in my neck
I sleep beneath a sheet of sand.

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Broken Conflicts

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