The light never dimmed or died
nor illuminated; only stagnating
and only language could rescue
a little girl lost, staring out
of dirty windows only dreaming
thinking: were I special, could I run
if only I were eighteen
I mightn’t have to wait for the light
to wane or to brighten
but regardless: to not be so stagnant
lighting up windows like pond water
but if only


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Filed under Poetry

One response to “81.

  1. Pingback: 81. – Br Andrew's Muses

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