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glaze
Poems
Jul 2013
She, the Mother
Her life is my nightmare,
tears pouring from heaven for her,
she, I see is cold and tired and scared,
in the mornings she is chained to her bed,
the snow infecting her womb,
now, old, futile and meaningless,
and yet when I reach out to touch her,
I feel a cold screen,
if I could only wake her,
requiem for a dream.
Written by
glaze
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maybella snow
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