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Shoulders sore, propped up over an internally burning stomach

Raw eyes anchored to keys,

Each digital page was a blanketed field surrounded by summits.


It’s no crowned jewel, although sometimes peppered by obsidian flakes,

Numbers indicating trailheads with the promise of mountains and lakes.


Following the spine upwards, eyeing the words down

Pages were the lungs breathing lines no one has found.

The cover is tough, they are palms blocking sounds,

Always hiding the face of stories, at least she told me,


I could write her poems saying what she wants,

She said she loves to read and fall in and be drowned.

Comprised of all the words that I forged in fire,

But the pages all burn until they're thin, and I wall them in.


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◄ The Move



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