For Hollow Hearts in Quiet Corners
Despair,
That deep “dark fruit,”
Birthed from sad, dim seeds,
Lodged in miserable mud,
Beneath lifeless trees,
At dusk.
Hollowed hearts,
Thumping muffled sounds,
In muted corners,
At quiet times,
With things best left,
“Unsaid.”
What dread,
As thick, red blood,
“Drip-drip-drips”
On primal parchment,
Pressed flat by weights,
“Untold.”
What force
(70 times 7?)
“Step-step-steps.”
(Press, push, pounds)
Tender grapes,
’til spent?
Despair,
That ripe “dark fruit,”
Hatched from wretched eggs,
Sends its lethal roots,
Upward,
At dawn.
What hope?
What distant faith
Might halt this wicked weed
From sprouting toxic trees?
“Light, bright!”
Unchecked …
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