when i am with
her in the secret
gardens of secret covers
i want her heart to melt
into milk and honey
and weep away all of the pain.
years of believing wrong
words over wrong lives.
and i like it when she
spills and i can carefully
scoop her into mugs
to serve back to her as hope.
i like to be strong.
i like to be strong.
but when i am with her
and traps and thorns
find us in the bushells
and nettles of the ground
that was cursed and the
womb that was made bare
and the hands that blister
and my heart is stone.
but she finds the point
and i respond and it doens't
matter i will fall.
doesn't matter i will be
what will become of me.
what will become of me?
old seamstress in the dark
spinning tales of youth
when hope and love
felt more like right.
more like life.
and i may live in the shadows
of dull shame
except that i am determinned
to keep her in. but
i am not stong.
i am not strong.
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1 comment:
you are strong. almost the strongest I've ever known. and for every mug of hope you've served me, I will cling to you because YOU my love, are the warmth in my belly.
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