pentip-paper
fornication beneath my
hunched figure,
tremble at the birth
of the harvest, of clouds gathering,
the damned infants of my labour.
I fear them too.
They are and will be death and hurt and once
they were. One does not forget
the monsters one sees in a reflection.
And thus the fear.
And thus the hate.
Thus the fetal thoughts
waiting waiting
for a nurturing hand.
To love these bastards is my greatest struggle, now.
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