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Hollowed out hopes

daffodils rise from the ground

i look for my heart to turn,

figuratively, into a garden

the painting where the anatomically accurate heart

sprouts flowers.


there are no more metaphors

to make

to mask the monster

domesticated to my head.

death seduced me to its bed.

the pinecones crack open

but a new tree never grows,

a thousand matches lit the wick

but the lantern never glows.

Zoe Golden