Fust
“To fust in us unused.”
Hamlet
Who fusts deep within?
Who raised hand as child
yet never chosen
so simpers in the
silent, sleepless hours.
If sought,
hides as fetal’d child
under the covers
of consciousness.
Who, in lieu, grows within?
And now appears as
an apparition
when asked.
More, what should we do
with the empty womb
within all
that cries out
for conception?
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