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Maria Mo Poem
my sympathies aren’t born of grace
like in the way of the benevolent heiress who,
ever-so-delicately, extends cupped hands
to feed the twittering songbirds
perched on her windowsill
it comes from a far more wretched place,
emerging so unsightly, it almost contradicts
the inherent virtue of the word
because it isn’t fueled by love or fortune,
but by every instance unaccounted for
in which i should’ve felt the same pity
for myself
my sympathy is abundant and involuntary
as though in response to constant overflow
and extends much further than hungry birds
or grieving friends
it reaches all the way out to lone, discarded cans
that didn’t quite make it to the trash bin,
and to the virtual strangers that walk past,
their defeats and quandaries overheard,
and to every unfortunate soul between,
under the sole condition that
they don’t share a brain with me
Copyright © Maria Mo | Year Posted 2023
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Details |
Maria Mo Poem
death's stood in the doorway
but i'm no good with words
so my pleas for mercy
come in the form of
fresh bandages on old wounds
and plastering my vices on greeting cards
though the reaper argues
that if there was any value
in a butterfly whose wings
are pinned to a corkboard
or a soul with one foot in the grave
and the other being fed to wolves
he'd carry his mercy in spades
Copyright © Maria Mo | Year Posted 2023
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