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Residence

  • Tudor Etchells / Photography Editor
  • Oct 28, 2015
  • 1 min read

Maternity doesn’t think as it

shrinks

from your passion

fruits of woman gives us essence.

Amiss you falter

your presence I don’t know.

Why those bricks

still sing

and praise

and

laugh

when the shit

evaporates into throats,

that choke on life repossessed

that glamour

now

corrupt in recliner reset.

As bottles lay along whitewood

in cheers,

ecstasy that bites

only when four elms chase

after, does a being

create

conversation trails blessed

as the intended route

tangent then crumbles

on all fours reaching;

a gasp for love

wrapped now in a parched pattern.

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