Mad She-Poet
- Bev Flynn
- Mar 12, 2021
- 1 min read
My garden bed of integral gaze
holds upright stones
which burn in bays of winter
my words
caused
by
a moon, or a scream
into the dreams of wake
I burn in this obscurity
candidly.. to tinder
I'm poised,
until my thoughts all turn to cinder
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