Poetry

Oxford: a poem

The gentle words
Have done their job
The flutter of
My heart has stopped

Eon that was
Three months of wait
Tired tension yields
To strange, new pain

While pulp punctured
By jarring stab
I’d understand
Instead, I am

A crumpled wad
Dropped quietly,
A puddle on
A rainy street

The miry wet
Seeps slowly in
I’m drowning in
What could have been

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