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I will leave my words here now
scattered upon the floor
as I have
so many times before
gather them or discard them
reject them or suspect them
scorn them or pity them
love them or lose them
or simply dismiss them
as you have done
so many times before
 Nov 2023 Frances E McClelland
B
I wonder if you know that you're my muse
so inspired by your torturous beauty
the way you erupt and emotionally bruise
that deep velvet burgundy
over plain flesh I will always choose.
You are the worst thing I have ever met
and I love you
put a ring on your finger, take you forever
I am an artist, it's what I do.
Imagine you a bird
That dared to fly the dark
Just to see the sun
Before it's fated spark
Formless weapons;
words really do hurt
Under the guidance of your tongue trigger,
bullets mixed in with your spit, and the
gun smoke in your raspy voice
-was all but enough to **** a man's character
HIS VOICE IN WORDS

It was a sunny day
in Wales

as it can only be
in picture postcards.

It was pinned
above her bed

but with the picture side
facing the wall

as if she had turned away
from that scene a long long time ago.

I had only ever
seen it once

(when she was asleep
I took a peek)

a scrawl of words
told her that it loved her

in a fadey violet ink

that could now barely be
discerned.

The postcard itself
as fragile as a leaf.

“Don’t turn it! ”
she pleaded in panic.

“I like to see his voice
in words! ”

running her fingertips
over his I LOVE YOU!

letting it speak
to her

from the fragile fading past

letting it speak
to her

even from beyond
his death.
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