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The Box

22 Aug

The Box

 As if she were a child
 Opening her arms
 Approaching the pain
 The wretched pain
 Present
 In each fallen tear
 A chasm
 Casting
 A wound to end all
 A wound she could not
 Cleanse nor treat
 Only weep for
 Not wanting a
 Breath for it
 A name for it
 Nor desire to see it
 Again
 Yet
 The eyes show it
 The heart aches
 The words lost
 And the wooden
 Box so small

C Flaxton
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