Poetry
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Something leaves wounds open Like the cracks in the soil, to make the rivers. Something forms time, Though it will not come. Something creates sounds for listener’s ears, Though I am deaf. With all of my pain, I hold my future, in rotting hands. I speak with brittle words, Reciting delicate verses. I write down…
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I’ll see where life crawls Back to the womb, Back to the safety of that hollow tomb, Back to the walls, the sheltering ones That mask themselves by the world’s gloom, Showing faces that do not wince, Nor eyes that do not blink. There are portraits, hanging thus Upon where safety is certain. There is…









