By Jenna Reimer
The cold wind on the rock,
The black wind of the sea,
Broke and bent-
A blood spurted from the soul:
Falling onto stones below
Where bearded peaks of ocean
Battled the cliff.
If it could have spoke,
If it could have stood up sharply,
To the sky and howl
The trashes of life-
Felt from the crevice of this earth.
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