The First Grasp
Dead clay limbs, with water
turn pink, warm, alive.
The cold earth is punctured.
I climb, escape, thrive.
Death lay behind me,
victory above.
Despair is beneath me.
The sky filled with love.
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Poetry
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The First Grasp
Dead clay limbs, with water turn pink, warm, alive. The cold earth is punctured. I climb, escape, thrive. Death lay behind me, victory above. Despair is beneath me. The sky filled with love. |