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Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to...

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Penny Fearn

Still

 

If I wore it as a ribbon on my coat lapel,

you would see

and whisper the mouldy facts to someone you trusted.

 

You would show me your torture masque while

I would be a story at your coffee-table.

 

If you knew,

you’d look at my dirty subtitles with your eyes wide –

I’d allow shame to pinch the volume of my voice –

and you’d think I was wronged or brave or ugly,

and it wouldn’t change a thing.

 

I’ve scorched my summers

and filed away my joy

to a charcoal cobweb,

blown inside out,

so tears drip down my neck

and metal gets caught in my hair.

 

Now there is only bone and disappointment.

 

 

 

 

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