Crone Poppet
I retreat to the edges again
The quiet
The darkness
The unformed
Sleeping, in deep, viscous liquid
Pulling myself out of it and then
back in.
Unsewing my wounds in public;
The unbalanced seek me for remedy
I see both ways and in between
My truth has now been shut out from
your glamour
My whisper lingers, but is hated.
My seduction is my absence.
Deep-set eyes display
Sheol, the place of bones
My container of form is emptied.
8/27/19
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