she sits and awaits in silent reverie
of what was always, yet never met to be
she ponders, hopes, dreams, then dismisses
all the wandering lovers she ever needed
wasting away night by night
the faded stillframes come to life
entwining memory with pictureless dreams
squandering heartlessness with dreadful seems
she sews and sews up the sides of her garment
torn for ages by a lustful brute
the unspeakable red mess left behind
as she bore not one but two of a kind
squalling and screaming a rage to be seen
two little angels in desguise it seems
she held them and coddled them
love as only a mother would know
two baby girls, one dark with cream the other white as snow
In Inspiration I Leave You,
Wren Sparrow
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