Each knife-stick
Blends the blade—
And I bleed,
Rife-quietly.
Your needs out-wield mine,
So I’m choked the weed,
Roots tenaciously
Staid to stone.
Alone,
Yet laid to wind-worthy reed,
All bone
And whine of whim
O’er the cone—
Cherub-shielding the purest
Of you and me.
I teeter-in-the-sky to disagree:
Quaint-chime is fine
For a sublime time,
Though my heart endureth
The cruelest,
Cagiest cacophony.
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Poetry: Family
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