March
Quietest of creatures was Miranda. Wrapped
each day in fairy-tale living, each night in token
giving, little seemed to grow in such a soul. Her
whole being deemed dependent on moves of
those surrounding. Their bounded noise and friction
wore away what little had existed from her start.
Shaping heart to merest token, would such trap
be broken into or abolished by minuscule responses
meted out in mousy range? Rules change, and did
so. Who could know the moment when the lamb
became the lion? Only bloodied half-remains spoke
witness to the wear. It’s rare to make compare
or ponder straights in wildest reconfigure. All that
waits in simple hearts is key to turn to stone.
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This is my first attempt at prose poetry. I'm not sure if this is the final title. Critical feedback welcomed. TY.