Mental sediment
collects at the top of my neck,
microscopic elephant graveyard
for the detritus of the day.
Accrual pain it is.
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Under the bones of the sky she splinters into inadequate words
2 comments:
Take away the commas in your labels for this poem and I think you have invented a new genre for the versists.
Been there, done that. You capture that mental sediment nicely. Ouch!
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