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Sometimes. Sometimes,
even your mother gets it,
against all the odds
of accumulating wisdom.

Though, this nagging presence
is nightmare-born from the gutters
of yesterdays’ guilts,
like ghosts impaled by the want of forgetting,
love-screeched banshees
peeling fingernails back,
down, down against the black.

Pain breaks slowly through the ground
of graves trampled to often and too early,
past the scorch of frozen barrenness
as buttercup and daffodil,
shallow and bitter,
shadow things to be
and to be forgotten.

(posted for open link night at DversePoets)

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