The World of Myth Magazine

The stemless, ferrous-smelling roses
of these MacraméMandalas
are pinned into aching elbows
as my core shakes and cowers before them,
throwing me into the tangle of memories
of when death was your suitor.

Since then, mellifluous sunsets followed me
like bloodhounds, relentlessly,
just like greedy creditors who claim their money,
to persuade me to tell the story
and the value of your caress, of your loving
hands at labor.

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