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  • murryben 11w

    Twenty-six seasons of wintry
    indifference and Life begins
    feebly at the heart of a titanium

    This must be solitude, I tell
    my wheelchair, as I sip the
    cheery red horizon of a
    fading sundown. This could
    be solitude but misery clings
    on my skin like an old
    dissatisfied lover, fearing

    We take a roll down the hills,
    My wheelchair and I. And I wonder,
    should the sky come crashing and
    bury us six feet under, would I still
    have the clouds to crochet a shroud
    for me to sleep in?

    Twenty-six seasons of grieving
    Autumn's fall and it took Death's
    frosty breath to jarr awake my bones.
    This must be freedom but my legs
    stay suspended mid-air and my
    knuckles pop under the weight
    of my apocalyptic percepience.

    Twenty-six seasons of living in
    blindfold indifference and the
    unadulterated wind sits for the
    first time on the tip of my tongue.
    I crawl, lamefooted towards
    where the damp soil beckons,
    and feel, for the first time, life
    gurgling inside my bulging veins.

    ©Meri Murry


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