Forgotten

It speaks of need.
My eyes unseen,
rove beyond the glass.

It wants
and still it wants,
and leaves me wanting.

I pass
the ninth spring
unknown and unknown.

Green reaches
as I pass through weeds,
take up lily of the valley.

Drink in
the fleeting sweet,
how we’ve become so alien to it.

But I cannot
do this work.
Blood grows bitter in my breast —

the blue veins
gather and throb.
And still, I cannot do this work.

Because this ninth spring wants.
And this ninth spring needs.
And it is weight beyond measure.

And I’m not sure
I can do
this work anymore.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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