Thursday, August 13, 2015

Maria Morisot - poem

It grabs
me; as I
thrash myself
in the
waiting room,
denying the
essence of
my existence;
that improper
sum,

And all
I can
see is
the bleak
passing of
a dead
sun,

Quick folds
of skin
expend them-
selves

And I
harbor
giants of
disproportion
within my
walls,
where I wait,
deliciously
weighing
the echoes of
her words.

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