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Pauper of Prose Aug 2018
She’s soft and scented in *****
Aromas of fine wine, upon her skin cruise
She holds her glass steady, then takes a sip
Eyes cast out to sea, under the waves her thoughts slip
As if everything around her, was but a blip
Some passerby wants to ask what’s she thinking
But seeing her so relaxed, instead asked what’s she drinking
I had laid to sleep
that voice inside me who loves,
for she bleeds and bleeds and bleeds...

but you--
with your quiet words--
have woken her again.

as much as she bleeds,
she would pour yet more--
a libation into the barrenness--

if you would but fill the silence.
written August 2014

— The End —