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A poem.

Photo by Bradley Howington on Unsplash

In a city of blossoms
I reach -

Lounging, the tigers might bite,
but I, goddess, hold the moon
in my palm. No shadow
could darken
my brightness.

Even the cicadas worship
me: they sing, “we,
we,” stingingly.




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Rowen Veratome

Rowen Veratome

They/them. Perpetual student. Recovering from PTSD. Writes philosophy formally, poetically, playfully, politically, personally, with love, ad infinitum.

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