Con(de)ception
leave--
the dark hand of memory still runs His brittle fingers across my face
run with the pack of wolves after feasting
they too were full
I remain
dancing here,
in the forest
hearing dying shrills of departing blackbirds
my eyes are closed
though I will not trip in your footprints
deeply engrained in my soil
the night will still carry your name
echoing off corners of growing voids
I will merely unbraid my veins
shed the flesh covering my soul
tuck this red mane
in Invisible's pocket
and poof
into the air of Nothing
we
conceived.
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