The Poetry Of Angel


Is it the gift of woman
to see the secrets
in a lover's eyes and
feel eternity in the
dark cries of children?

Or is it merely chance
that she be filled with
a pain swelling from the
center of earth

Resting in the pit of the
sky where rainbows spill
to a cold hard ground

And dewdrops shatter
on the sharp edge of
a blade of grass

No, it is merely the
burden bestowed
upon her in the
flow of blood
and tears

The world's expanse
swollen in her pores
until it crests and
flows over into her
soul, heart, all


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