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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 07, 2017

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Submitted: September 07, 2017



What makes the bones of this

Woman I ground into paste,

The body I

Stir into ink so the

Words on these pages have life?


I don’t have an ending --

It seems to be

Chasing at shadows of who I’ll become,

Elusive yet still pressing on,

Determined to know

If I’ll join them someday


What makes the mind of this

Woman I stretch into paper,

Exposing the

Thoughts so imperfectly whole?

It withers to ashes,

Then grows in a flame

Fated only to burn, then die


I don’t have an answer,

But still I can’t help when I

Question the depth of the pit where it’s


Meant to be silenced,

Meant to be cloaked in a

Veil of flowers and

Neatly concealed in a

satisfied  “Happily Ever After”


This body knows not of its essence, and not

Of the ground to which it returns --

Its heart is too fragile,

Too easily broken,

With Mysteries not to be solved.


-- yet still it leaves traces

Of hope that might stir

In the restless heart of another --

What makes the will of this

Woman who knows it is


But tries anyway?


© Copyright 2019 M Branford. All rights reserved.

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