build mansions

House of Heart

Throw away those pages,

that pink littered landscape.

Where is the victory in pity?

Build your mansion of bones

and sorrow so deep it can

not be contained but spills

from the fissure of your heart.

Reach inside stretched

skin whose scars  still sting.

There is no poetry

in  swallowed pain,

of  the temperate voice.

Those words are still born.

No life lives there,

no womb that has birthed

scorn and rage.

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