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Image for the poem Cinnamon

Cinnamon

Somewhere still, someone waits.

They sit and think and they ponder possibilities.  
Somewhere dark, they emit slow hums from their throat,
working the guttural chakra of their throat.  
Croaking out lurid sounds that transcend the human.  
 
Somewhere cold, they peel back their eyelids and cinnamon their eyes.  
 
Growing harder, the burning, the sweet aroma, and the sacred pain awakens their power.
Ms_Misguided
Written by Ms_Misguided
Published | Edited 24th Mar 2021
Author's Note
my notes are a collection of madness,
as am I, no help for it
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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