Best Poem of H.J. Shreeve

Idle In June
She dares not let the world hear her speak,
She's getting thin and looking meek,
A grey hair is splitting in her widows peak
She lays idle in the month of June.

Her hands are cracked and stained from mud,
although she bathes in lathered suds
There's a little of me inside her blood
She lays idle in . . .
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Despair
Despair,
A hole dug deep,
By bloody fingernails,
Dug deep,
By the strongest of men.

Many hands have scaled,
Her endless, dirty walls.
I bite my fingers in anticipation,
I taste nothing but mud,
My poor, cracked fingernails.

Look up,  
You no longer see,
Blinding . . .
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