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The Child

Damn robin on the tea-towel; far away you
shrouded in snow.  Still my fingers ache from coldness.
Not good enough, eh?  Ill show you.  Ill raise
up those robins, theyll dance on my shoulders.  Ill spin
like a Sufi wing, covered in robins, with all my A grades.
Ill ace my way through life and then maybe,
maybe, you just might lift up your nose.

For if only I could describe it
this feeling of scarlet-galaxy-night every time I open
up gold stardust and paint with my fingers.
Look, please this eternal spell woven by digits
of grass-blades and chalk squiggles.
How can I convey it, so that you might drink it?

Raven Castell

If you have any comments on this poem, Raven Castell would be pleased to hear from you.

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