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Rated: E · Poetry · Emotional · #2212513
My attempt to write something in the ancient ghazal form
I know I cannot change to make another like me.
I shouldn’t ache because she doesn’t bother like me.

Snakes with all their craft and wisdom don’t regret, repent
the subtle, advantageous paths they slither like me.

I thought she’d understand our sinewed bond, the irons
that conjoin her with every other mother like me.

Does she lie emptied after anxious celebrations?
Chasing sleep beneath dead sheets, does she smother like me?

As pure in heart, we poets should bridge distance—be one:
I can’t understand why she wouldn’t rather like me.
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