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The Hedgehog

March 13, 2019

 

He curls at the sight: His world
     ripped away from him
     like a fresh hide.

 

Every memory a land mine; every
      outstretched limb in bed
      a phantom stab in the dark.

 

Once faeries and cuddlebears,
     now silence and muddied air.

     Trees have turned mushroom-feed.

 

No cute names dripping like nectar;

     they tear into flesh

     like murderous glowworms.

 

The forest is a cavern; every scent

     a charred turbinate, like earth

     blitzed to powdered sweat.

 

He cries floods, but nothing grows;

     Only space-time and theorems

      yet to fathom, scattered in dust.

 

But he must go on. His little feet,

     stuck in many mires must
     many-the-mile onward, must

     make new promises, must

     make anew and honest again.

                  And again.

                                     And again.

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Ryan Oliveira

Ideas.  I'm full of them.

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