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No one ever held a knife to me
And meant it. That’s a blessing.
Across the park with umber skin,
A girl clutches her dark scalp
In the startling moments of her story.
I can see the softness of her hands
Gently returning the sunlight.
I stroke the bristles of my jaw
And stretch my wits toward history
Of young hands in stillness,
Of rest In a sacred place.
Someone asked me why
I so often look sad.
I hadn’t heard that in years.
I was always fond of saying,
My eyes are sad, because
They see too much.
I didn’t know a damn thing.


Rax said…
I love how the vivid imagery sets up the reader for the raw emotion in the ending. That feeling of helplessness expressed in a soulful write. excellent. :)

p.s. I just stumbled on your comment on my unfinished blog afterglow. sorry it took a long time to reply. So I thought I'd drop my links Soul 's Phantasm and Afterglow keep writing!
Very raw. And such graphic images. Beautiful writing.
chicklegirl said…
You have a lovely way of putting the right words together and making it sound like music. My favorite line was "I can see the softness of her hands/Gently returning the sunlight".

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