persona ĝardenoj, parto unu

the books we used to call holy
say that we were made from the dirt and dust
but if it were up to me, I’d just be from dirt
for from dust springs no life

a ghost stooped over my sprawling and sleepy body
drifting over desolate valleys and sweeping hills
all to plant a seed within me
a seed that I allowed to germinate

my arms are desert dunes
with rivers of pink and red
flowing wild and free- trophies
earned from a lifetime of earthquakes

this forest that stands in my chest now is
a personal testament to a contradiction
of jagged crevices concealing storms with pervading poisons
wilting everything they touch


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