Prose is Writing Poetry

To each reader their own poem

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The Cut of Ocean First Seen from Land

Day after day this constant forsaking
that closes round my chest—a choking fist.
The blood that passes my heart still aching,

the triumphs and loves not slaking
my lack. That dark hollow in me persist
day after day. This constant forsaking

like and ether volatile and quaking,
a strike from lighting the burn in my wrist—
the blood that passes, my heart still aching.

This great WHY? I shout at the night, breaking
against the sky like waves on rocks (I kissed
day after day this). Constant forsaking

in my being, the days morph to months, taking
years. Nothing comes, there’s no climax, just mist.
The blood that passes my heart still aching,

thinking this story, this life I’m making
will lead somewhere, but here’s the one real twist:
opening like a sea, this forsaking
gives my heart life, since there’s things worth aching.

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