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Dec 2017
These whispers burn red, flaring up merely to become ashes

What’s left of the words I want to say

Scatter

Shriveled things blown away by the breath leaving me

Without words.
Without voice.

This tongue. A coffin.

These lips. A tomb.

Silence makes the Death of me.
297
Written by
petalpoems  24/F/NY, NY
(24/F/NY, NY)   
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