Between L4 and L5
A poem is stuck,
Softly cushioning
against
vertebrae of
calcified memories.
Let them not touch
like rusted swords
thirsty for
honour blood.
My lips, are still
pink
with a smile
between occasional
flashes
of electrical pain,
Because between L4 and
L5,
A poem is still
breathing.
oh my. I feel both the pain and the poetry here. (Hope you feel better soon, if this is based on experience!)
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