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Rest

Somedays words are oblivion,
tasteless, dehydrated -
as hollow as empty air
and I can't make them mean more,
make them rain,
make them meet
where the birch
untangles her hair
and dangles it
over a river for baptising
instead I lay out
on a thorn-grass field,
let my flesh go dry in the sun,
larynx along with her
and imagine never speaking
nor rising again.
Written by ImperfectedStone (The Gardener)
Published
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