Aging Poet
The light behind her now as she grows down the years
Clinging moss on northern walls distilled as memories’ tears.
Labored breathing cold and ghostly whispered
Down the halls with poems uttered, words fluttered;
Pounded chisel to stone, heart to bone.
A labored love like childbirth, storms exploding
Into consciousness, or left alone to die.
Oh, do not ask me why.
A poet knows she has become such things
Before she merges with the sunshine to awaken.
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