She stands outside the mouth
in fear—it tastes like dirt—
a gummy red, soulful clay soil.
She passes through
this entrance daily
to travel into that deep, pitch,
sometimes dank, place
inside herself
where she plucks poems
from vines. Too dangerous now,
this passage might cave
into her, she might crumble
into a thousand tiny pieces
of a broken heart.
Loved this.
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Thank you Heather!
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Beautiful. The feeling in this poem is very powerful–touching and heartfelt, without sentimentality. Very lovely.
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