The Cage Poem by Margaret Ann Newcomb
The Cage
To scramble up the steep brambled
Hill that is your heart is peril.
Gentle, delicate peril.
The scratches and poison of your past
have made an iron door.
It seems no one needs love more.
They were too good at teaching
You to hate yourself.
Lay down your iron door.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
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5/8/2024 4:40:23 PM # 1.0.0.1119
