Anachronistica {Poetry}

Yesterday, I watched Frida Kahlo paint a masterpiece.

Tomorrow, I will be born.

My mother died before I was a woman.

My son is my father.

My hair grows upwards.

My fears root themselves in my feet

And my cycles are counter clockwise to the moon.

I can’t please you, you’re just a pile of bones. 

Right now you hold the breath of life and forget what you are up to.

While you’re running late to your wake,

I stopped the ticking clock,

Peeled back the sky,

Slumbered in the grave,

And bore the first starlight. 
 

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