EMILY


I live not for truth –
Nor beauty or pain.
I walk in the graveyard
And look for her tomb –
Where she combs the moss
Out from her lips.
Quietly, I stand there –
And envy those unborn souls,
Eaten up by Earth’s womb,
Growing from the ground
Like dusky oaks
while I break myself down
And apart until their branches
Fill up the evening.

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