Challenge
Challenge of the Month XXXIX
Write a short poem about your own private Hell. The tortured who reigns gets 100 big ones. Winner will be picked by Prose. Go.
Amaze
These hands, she fills them.
Delicate china,
held by the bull.
Hummingbird feathers
and hollow scrimshaw
decorate the labyrinth,
But she remains unbroken,
bending, instead,
lifting, pulling, pushing us
ever skyward.
The burden too heavy,
clouds too far,
slipping grips and crushing
weights, I fell and I'm fallen.
She moves up,
she moves on,
and I mourn.
I will welcome my Theseus.
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