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Oct 2018
You Remind Me of Butter

You’re hard when you’re cold,
inside of the steel box.
It’s there you keep your shape.
If I were to open your cage,
take you out
where there is warmth
and fresh air
I know you would melt
right in my hand.
You’d run down the length
of my arm,
liquid gold spreading like fire,
a greasy, waxy paste.
Nothing I could hold.
Nothing I could shape.
But see that’s the beauty of
when you let go.
You’re not formed.
sandra wyllie
Written by
sandra wyllie  53/F
(53/F)   
241
 
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