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Post by gypsy on May 9, 2023 12:41:51 GMT -5
the Om of our making is undated is a queue that I stare at, so easily circled, as I find a way, an outside in, in an equation, one pending on an angle held, one that I must fill & place myself within, to organ a him, to masquerade the famine of the sacred feminine, home & hide from femicide we women burning at womb ends
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Post by goldenmyst on Jun 6, 2023 23:06:23 GMT -5
Such a tragedy that some men would do as your poem illustrates. You wrote this as only a woman can with flourishes of dark genius that encompasses the struggle of women that lingers even in this age. A brilliant title that introduces the truth of the madness of our world toward women.
John
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