with summons,
I sit alone; I was tired of my penetralium
and id frozen in aureoled chokes,
harassing me to the shadows;
each eye abstract, to the phantom
of stone; I snipped my garden bones
of the rose-beds, felt the hidden
moon into the thorns, a baby’s opus,
the dying game.
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Not alone you shall walk nor die.
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Thank you—those are wise words.
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“each eye abstract..” gorgeous.
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Thank you! ☺️
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Your depiction of death and the atmosphere it triggers resonates metaphorically in the poem. So moving, creating a sense of anxiety. Great piece Lucy!
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Thank you so much, Henry!
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You are welcome
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