How do sprouts know when to lift their heads and shout?
Like cool marble on the belly of a bare foot
baring the tenacity of cancer
betraying the lunacy of a blood moon
pulling syllable fossils and making them whole,
this is part the art of writing.
The other part? Reflection:
a reader a writer and the words between
creating a stream of consciousness
or a face peering into clear water only to see itself
for some there is nothing else
for me there is nothing else.
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