Jan 4 • Feedback & Critique
The choice
Ripped from sleep, some dreamlike state,
I levitate from the locus of our love
Which for now,
Are all stop signs
And snowy streets without a sound,
Or a single birdsong in the crooked branches
Clinging to suspended life
With praying hands,
A dagger waits, electric
And it gives me the most impossible choice:
Do I give in to the joy of you and I
Or
Risk staying in a host that feeds me,
But
Restricts my voice
5
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The choice
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