She opens her hands,
clenched for years
in a tight fist
like a new-born,
but these fists hold no secrets
of a mother’s womb,
no innocence, or dreams freshly sown—
instead, their hardened skin bears
lacerations that come
from a hard grip
on a fugitive soul
sliding mercilessly
into the devil's pit
deep, deep
where she buried
old wounds
(c) Neetu M.
by the river
he looks lost
his face appears ancient
in rumination
under the sycamores’
embracing shade
thinks he might see
God
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Finn's life is in the hands of a distant and deadly relation.
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