1
weary hands pull threads
from under a rug of skin,
silk free to find the wind
or small iron rivers.
the certain thirst of oceans,
why is a mother always involved?
2
the drought of my heart
shrivels hope like the
blast of an august sun.
brown grass, crazy
from the heat
raises hands in
prayer to a true blue sky.
I wait for the thirst
to end
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