Monday, September 30, 2013

above route 3.




she is subservient
to the voices, but not
their effort to quell a voracious
taste for the truth

panic with its filthy fingers
climbs into her throat
the stale insides of her cage
coerce a plunge, and
she constructs the flight

pain is a living thing
it coddles terror in its blanket
without a heart, or wings


© 9.30.13 heather brager  

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