The Fishwife Pin
Without a voice,a voice to love,
a pin I named The Haunt
pricked viciously into
withering rolling lumps
that be came my brain.
Again, and still
the fishwife pin
dips and dawdles.
Reveals a longing
shoveled over with mountains of festering fear.
Harps strung silver,
singular in their own sound,
drift in and circle my heart
so splintered it is
singing miserable recognition.
What was me
has taken to streets,
deadened in their places,
forsaking courage
for dusty roads
trodden by my own feet cradled in denial
I named Comfort.
Without your voice,
your voice to love me.
I am alone.
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