eternal loneliness

lonely poems waiting for another line, another hit from the master, if she was ever a master
lonely writer, doesn’t understand the veins of her own poetry
the roots she cut into several parts trying to make something out of nothing
out of everything
still trying to map out all the roads in the leaves of her entirety
lonely poet, doesn’t call me a poem, doesn’t call herself a poem
a piece of art she is
with all her complexities
her subtleties
and her inability to see the trail of dark, majestic stardust trailing behind her
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