Rated for Teens(13+)
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Not A Moon

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From the poet’s ink it begins to rise-
not a moon, but a cyclops eye,
bleaching the green from the leaf.

And then,
there are no longer trees.

Just a hunched back embryo,
waiting for Genesis-
leaching the warmth from the stone.

Grinding a path into a road of bones-
not a moon, but a cyclops eye.

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