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Aug 2016
Upon my untrimmed brow the light doth lie. I wear her luminescent perfume and return to when I lived within a weary rose and leaned, unnoticed, against a weather-worn white picket fence. The fence was built by the hands of my father. I think too of the way I have "grown", innocent and hopeless, ever seeking to cling to the breast of my absent mother. Tonight I am neither the rose nor the daughter scorned; I am the Luna moth beating angel feather wings and flying, unceasing, toward the impossible light of my ever too distant mother Moon.
Moon, sturgeon, full, spirituality, death, child, growing, change, scorned, absent, distant, distance, mother, father, daughter,
Emma Hill
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Emma Hill  417
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