deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Inside Place

I’m gathering the hem  
of overhanging skirts in preparation  
for the deepest journey  
my spirit has yet to breathe through.  
 
Who is the wayward child, skipping
Sunday morning in favor  
of rocks and blessed be.
 
Her heart swears in sailor-tongue,
jars filled a-plenty with quarters
and frog eyes.
 
It’s sawdust and maple leaves, turning
circles in open galleys, stretching from  
dawn to twilight.  
 
She reckons with no one.
 
Written by Eerie
Published | Edited 9th Sep 2023
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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