October.

There is a lump
Where my heart is
And it slowly rots
In my place of womenhood
Drifting back
To memories of childhood
It seems, almost unreal..
The breez
The feel
Of wind
Passing by the autumn leaves
Umder an autumn sunset
Into my face
Drifting through my fingertips
And themusty scent
Of pine wood
It almost should
Be unreal
I am not the same person
She and I
The 14 year old girl
First in love
Devergnised of
The complixties of the world
Sunkin into
Ideasilim
I, the 35 yearold woman
Loved much
And lost much
And have let the
Thoughts of beauty
And existance
And possibility
All the aesthitical simplicity
Slip.
For on my breast
Attached to my chest
The one that is suppose
To archaticturaly
Beautify me
The one that is suppose
To feed
My unborn, not yet concived child
There is a lump
An ironicaly
Almost bullit shaped
One.
Slowly ticking
Slowly rotting
Slowly wakeing me
And shakeing me
And putting me to deep
Unexisable
Irriversable
Sleep.