Still, a quiet not won
by character or craft, too often
contrived and insincere
fills the violent hour. A respite
inside suffering, bricks on the forehead,
as stone on loose paper, is like this
when the moon looks me in the eye
looks me in the mind
and says
Carry and feel the sag, feel
till you bleed, then sleep
to pick it up again
Enjoyed it.
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π thanks, Ankit.
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So lovely and hard.
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π thank you, Katy.
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My pleasure, Lovely Vera!!! π
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