you rip the clouds
from the sky itself....
head swaying side to side,
eyes lost in the museum
of feelings too long denied.
babbling odes to the gods,
breathing breath stolen
from a primeval forest....
naming the color
your fingers buried
in my hair!
postcards written in flesh!
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Comments about this poem (Tiny Deaths by Eric Cockrell )
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If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
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