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To the Goddess of Transformation

Please come in: go all the way back

to the old closet past the kitchen

where the priests left their wine-stained robes.

 

Where the arms and legs of hallowed toys

that never worked, never played

are buried in the graveyard of lies.

 

Let the drunken robes sleep on,

undisturbed;

but clear away the empty bottles

of belief.

 

For every time I touch them,

I bleed onto the edges

of their granite labels.

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b
Written by
brian-donohue
American
Published
Feb 9, 2010
Lines·Words
13·72
Permission

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