There's a book pouring out of, feeling through the ifs and the buts; I'm listening. What soul must we pull out from the buried tomb where my demons loom and peace taunts me from the swing of a pendulum, left, right, did I get it right? When I chose this way over that one, Him over Her, me over them, who won? Some days I can't see; I can't inhale. There's a stone holding the air between. The middle is the life I willed, the living I tilled. And with ink and a trail of scribed truths, I'll wail. I'll wail.
This poem is from Hunni’s poetry collection, Healing: Cum and Dance.
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