Penelope van Maasdyk

Void

Hollow womb. Bloodied ground
cannot be heard on echo breath.
Empty nostrils sniff out the sound
of silence in a heartbeat’s death.

Pull a child from chink of day,
breath beats on in empty lungs.
The echoes of the dead still pray;
mute serf cut out their tongues.

Darkened holes of eyes drill deep.
A person turns to fill the space.
An empty body chants a beat
when incense idols leave this place.

The earth revolves and spills its light.
Bend, wring, echo twisted life.

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