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your body is not a sea coast
for wandering sailors to make their makeshift homes
your cerebrum is a vault of chaos
that stirs up in your heart
waiting to be explored
and I ask for you,
how can men with graveyards in lieu
of their minds
ever understand the language, you so desperately try to recite?
YOU ARE READING
Throes of Spring ✔️
Poetry[FEATURED] godhood is just like girlhood: a begging to be believed
