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WISHING WOMBS

By Ghost of Earth



In my womb grows an aching child of fire

and in her belly flickers a lone black candle

one that draws death’s head and cinnabar to it

that dance among the dark of their own shadows.

 

As the doll inside of me quakes and grows

in dream space I become her marrow

making a place for legs to carry her magic

and arms to pull it toward the world.

 

If she must break me into pieces to escape

into the bitter blind of uncertain landscapes,

if she must take her chances outside of me

I will not deny her this.

 

Better her now than this tired shell,

I now release you from this hellish vessel

better her to carry the star of us on,

for the world to witness, to warm by, to wish on.


© Copyright Dark Poets Club

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