http://slow.writerscafe.org/AborVitae_weseek The original writings of author Nicole Marie en-us Copyright 2026 WritersCafe.org 1776007296 WritersCafe.org RSS Generator 15 what a foolish thing, I say,to guess about that nature,the sensual fussof lush decay; the décor in theautumn flesh, heavy jingle from my chestrising in its muffled chime,amidst the swelling day.our math devoursthe ochre petal;supported by its brittled veincoiled ro.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AborVitae_weseek/612163/  I do not know how to let goYour death follows me like A swarm of beesSo loud, I cannot stand itSo close, I cannot flee Like a backdrop paintedAcross my brainMusic that does not leavethe blankness of my workthe numbness of my eyesthe tightness of my lipsI cannot s.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AborVitae_weseek/397624/ love sucks and this poem isn't finished http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AborVitae_weseek/397623/ this happened and it sort of stayed in my head for days http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AborVitae_weseek/397620/  as the ginormous hands cup meand lift me (I slide throught their lines) and i lose sense of lighti stumble from the dazei give out like a fuse.  I return tothe cylethe phantomthe spindle. upon reachingthe tattere.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AborVitae_weseek/345970/ The weeks following your deathI know nothing.I count every morning.I lay with two half-shut eyes.I blink. I study the wall The corners.  I wriggle my toes. RepositionMy folds. (The unruffled dawnAttempts to renew) it invades with a stream of infan.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AborVitae_weseek/345947/ (pushing the curtain aside) suspended moon,I envy your distance. I rest my cheek on my hand,I fold my body, curl my kneesand think about how easythat could be. to be hung high enoughto be able to see enough, to be able tobe.  http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AborVitae_weseek/345943/    It wakes me andI rise-- I comprehendthe glow ofthe outside It is Silent. the accurate formsof snowdrift and quiver Crusted slopes ofThoughtful design This be their insistent flight.This, their song, unearthed&nbsp.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AborVitae_weseek/345930/   it's merely the muscle. but to me,it is marble.it is the infant's head,it is the taut balloon,an open slice,the blinded eye. it sings,it aches,it cracks,it cries. it knows not-- and so do I.  &nbs.. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AborVitae_weseek/294427/ A springtime piece. Inspired by a day where I put my daily tasks on hold and observed the regrowth of nature. Renewal at its finest. Prime time in the midwest-- mid April. http://slow.writerscafe.org/writing/AborVitae_weseek/294408/