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My Dreams My Works Must Wait Till After Hell

 I hold my honey and I store my bread 
In little jars and cabinets of my will.
I label clearly, and each latch and lid I bid, Be firm till I return from hell.
I am very hungry.
I am incomplete.
And none can give me any word but Wait, The puny light.
I keep my eyes pointed in; Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt Drag out to their last dregs and I resume On such legs as are left me, in such heart As I can manage, remember to go home, My taste will not have turned insensitive To honey and bread old purity could love.

by Gwendolyn Brooks
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