Poetry

Perts Taorht

An apple, lodged inside,

its spikes penetrate the soft flesh

housing my voice.

Ripping, tearing, cutting raw,

splintering me with swollen hurts.

Saline does not help,

but tell that to my eyes

who spill it so freely.

Only the caress of stern mould love

and time

can ease the reddened void.

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