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Veronica Aldous - Poetry and Art

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Her lament

The way it was, I burned myself, the red welt rose
Blistered like a punishment, a solemn mark
From a hierophant; but it was just a meal
Gone wrong, some nourishment that never  reached
The plate and lasted years, a semiology of memory
Like an elastic band twanged to make me hesitate
To ever think  regretfully
Of  he who caused my hand to shake;
Love  burns
Much fiercer when seasoned with the fear of hate.

Veronica Aldous 2016 All Rights Reserved

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