poetry time. This is pretty far from my usual genre—sort of an uncomfortable topic for me— but inspiration is inspiration.
It is a wound bequeathed to me,
Pink sheltered flesh incarnadine
Which tracks Moon’s stagecoach through the sky
And weeps life’s liquid sanguine
For want of stoppered relief come
And seal the gape that aches and runs;
This reviled temple of our birth,
These martyrs time has thought to kiss
Know woman’s curse is comfort free
Till youth is done for aiding thee.
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