Poem: Petty sorrows of the ego

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Petty sorrows of the ego

Night craves them like a tongue its wine.

Moon’s eye bleaches the pillow

where bare I lie, my head a stone,

my mouth a hasp, dry.

Sweet grapes of specious self

long eaten, velvet skins split

and empty beneath the bed-attire,

with opal shadows, gone by morning.

Small sacrifice: the tiny deaths of what

I wanted, never got, and didn’t require.

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Poetry should be heard.