Poetry by Whitney Wright


Flesh still burns
In isolation.
These broken walls
Are cold and thick with grease
And still, the shadows slip
Into the small space
Where she died.
Stitched lips obey
Her commands while wrapped
In silver stars of sorrow.
Ivory pours out
The empty vessel
Singing its song of melancholy
Into the vast reaches of yesterday.
Between her finger tips
Laid the secrets of the universe.

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