She
She slept
And to the softened
Silence of the bed
One came and led
The way inside her head.
No door,
No key,
But smooth and quietly
The bone and skin
She melted threw
And stood within.
There,
Stretching out before her
Dim and wide,
Were vaulting hall's,
The arches of her mind.
Here all she's ever known
Or done,
She'll find.
And looking at
The file on file of trash,
She sobs aloud.
The one who lies beside her wakens
And asks,
Why?
And softly from her sleep she makes a cry;
And say's,
"I am not,
no,
i am not proud."
Copyright © Shantae Ortega | Year Posted 2013
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