Her Poetry.



Inside the small, purple room,
Under the warmth of the
Yellow light,
I feel a slight tingling on my
Forehead, as she kisses it
With delight.
She holds my hand, and rubs
My fingers, touching my palm,
Tracing the lines,
Her eyes blink slowly, scared to miss
The minute pores on my face,
Her tears brightly shine.
Her lips form her own words,
So ancient, so new,
Like undiscovered desires.
She tells me the stories
She has lived in, the poems
She has written with ice and fire.
Holding my hand, she says
She wants me to give
Her story, a new cover.
And she continues reciting
Her beautiful poetry,
My grandmother.

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About themanofletters

Love poetry, love Marmite, Alright?
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