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Midnight Chrrysalls
This clinging dark
not death, not bloom
stilled in air.
Soft walls resist what dares to come
The skin forgets its former hue,
Will light find purchase there?
A hush before the body breaks,
not wing, not wound, but something near...
The splitting shell reveals a vast, cold, bright despair.
Copyright ©
Hira Fatima
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