by September 26, 2019 0 comments

fiddling in the darkness
pushing up against the walls
in time, it was distended
like a sack of amniotic fluid
drowning in the excess of
too much material
an illusion of growth,
the protection of a womb,
allowing words to infiltrate
through the skin-lining
of the belly

she ate to feed the story
yet to be born
she savored the remaining moments
before it was out of her control
twisted like a knot inside
unable to detangle
the threads she’d bred
she continued living
until the pressure built
up beyond all comprehension
the patterns refused to connect
the lines of meaning never surfaced
and the breath of life within
was suppressed to nonexistence

editors note:

Stillborn, we mourn; an idea bursting until bubble popped and gone. What was that again? – mh clay

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