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Rated: E · Poetry · Spiritual · #2131601
A child of Poetry denies heritage of the woman who brought his words to life.
Poetry isn't my first language
but a beating rhythm
first discovered
in my mother's belly
-- my fraternal twin --
conceived yet undelivered
until I set pencil to spiral notebook.

Resurrected
it revealed itself
-- having hidden in my flesh --
imprinted on shared DNA.
Celtic roots
like risen cream
giving birth over and over
to her traditional flavor
tamed by a foolish boy
-- with ideas of his own --
only to return inevitable
crying for the womb
to heal eyes, ears, mouth
show all
what love and words
truly are made of.

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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2131601