tagNon-Erotic PoetryRaising A Stillborn Child

Raising A Stillborn Child


She set ink to paper,
another blue dot
embedding the same old digits
on the wall calendar.

They grow up so fast,
don't they? Don't they?
Yes, they do.

Traces yet a
chalk outline
of possibilities,
erosion blurred
at the edges.

Then smudges the white
with salt and semantics.

Only blue dots remain.

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byLiar© 9 comments/ 5651 views/ 4 favorites

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