Of Consciousness her awful Mate
Of Consciousness her awful Mate by Emily Dickinson
Of Consciousness, her awful Mate
The Soul cannot be rid --
As easy the secreting her
Behind the Eyes of God.
The deepest hid is sighted first
And scant to Him the Crowd --
What triple Lenses burn upon
The Escapade from God --
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
