BURDENS

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love is a woman

Perhaps the night is starry.
The cold sits on the air like a nomadic throne–
You do not look out your window so you run out of descriptions.
You crumble into your sheets like an ice sculpture exposed to a furnace.

But you are no ice sculpture,
So you do not crumble:
You refuse to mold yourself into eccentric words of an art form–
You run out of metaphors.

You hate small spaces but you hold a basket full of sorrows.
You hate generalizations because what is inexperienced should not be defined with a certain tongue. 
You hate candles because they remind you of the army of little dancing flames, neatly marching during brother’s burial, 
Yet you do not hate death.

Death is a gift box with a wrap of skeptical patterns,
Release the ribbon, depart, and you’re unable to return to tell of it;
Oh, wouldn’t it make a beautiful poem?
You think poetry is an escape, 

But you treat these pages like a disposal ground, covered with scrappings and the corpses of your emotions. 
You remember love is a burden,
Yet solitude isn’t freedom either.

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