a fugitive from that clear tear

filled reservoir,

she had not used despite

emotional fractures,

his fracking of her loins

as a way to magic love gases

leaving stains on nocturnal linen,

it was a dimension of time

she did not want to fill,

running through avenue of trees

and answer that once and only calling

leaving vomit on tree roots,

offering to those sprites that

intrigue our fairytale curiosity ,

dark folds and long chimed bell,

within heavy breasted heart

answers writhed as a bed

of worms center of her being

and all that it withstands,

change had many prices

and used only certain currencies

that she had to pay,

was it worth it

nail scrawled words on her back

proved it

 

poetry , poem, poet

Sunday whirl

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