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My hands are soft and covered in my own honey,
Dug deep and with precious, loving skill.


You aren’t here. No one shares these moments,
So empty and nebulous but the definition of
“Finding yourself” is reserved for those of us
With a stomach for suffering. My view of the truth
So deep that it forces shivers from our sleep
And blood choked whispers that rise and fall
With the indifference of my peers in this
Sultry and lonely July.


My eyes register optical illusions and I known
That I cannot truly be seeing my face in
Empty stares from voiceless men and women.


My honey flows from my body and it is nothing
Like the sweet boon of yesteryear.
It is wormwood on my tongue, splitting the heavens
With a descent to echo in between the words
Written of an isle were brave men face their final moments
In solitude, hoping in faith for life eternal.

Read this poem on Tumblr. All Moments Are One

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