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  Pandora’s Sister She found the box that had been gifted to her sister by some god, or other. Her sister who, in capital lettered speech   insisted that she must never open it. Even on the days she felt most disagreeable, most inclined to stir things up a bit. She must leave it alone. Otherwise, she’d be straight out of the frying pan and into the fire, according to Big Sister. But one day, feeling bored, undervalued, and shouted at by everyone in the house, she came across it, and picked it up, danced a little jig, whizzed off the top and looked inside. It seemed empty. Disappointed, she closed it again and put it back. If anything invisible had escaped her sister would get the blame, or so she hoped. Fingers crossed, there’d always be hope. https://www.penumbric.com/currentissue/whitePandora.html
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  Listening to Birds She asked me why   caged birds sing when home is a prison or   it looks that way to us. I couldn’t tell her, not for sure. She asked me why humming birds hum, if it was their song, I said it was a work sound made by their wings a sound of struggle and survival,   a sound you can hear,   made by a movement so fast you can’t see it. So nothing is as it seems. ”Do they still sing?   I must listen more carefully,” she said.
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  Transported Always carried, on the inside, on the outside, in the centre on the edges. Always on the edge, on edge, edgy haunted transported in memories   and dreams. https://www.ultramarinereview.com/post/transported
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  Kinds Of Blue From the blue of the sky to the blue of your eyes and blue of the sea where sunlight reflects blue on blue. On such a bright blue day as this darkness cannot encroach blue is kept outside, doesn’t move in to infect us. But I know that surely later there will come a kind of bleary blue-black night and bring its bruising   blue tones blue notes   which will move inside. There are all kinds of blue. https://www.ebay.co.uk/itm/396163215681?chn=ps&norover=1&mkevt=1&mkrid=710-153316-527457-8&mkcid=2&itemid=396163215681&targetid=4584757337008487&device=c&mktype=&googleloc=&poi=&campaignid=431353847&mkgroupid=1298523655396099&rlsatarget=pla-4584757337008487&abcId=9301942&merchantid=87779&msclkid=53c75496c7501f42d699333f2bd2f08e
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  The End Last year was year of fire and heat the forests are burning, the cities are burning in Gaza even babies are burning. This year opens with floods and cold But the forests are still burning, the cities are still burning and in Gaza babies are still burning. Water no longer is sufficient   to douse the flames. Cold can no longer quell the heat. There seems nothing now   that will put them out, the eternal flames of last year’s fires. https://poetsonline.org/archive/arch_buringtheoldyear.html
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Rosebush Many offered a hand to set me free. I told them to wear gloves and to beware of the thorns hidden amongst the blooms, ready to penetrate their skin, but no one heeded my warning, they were enchanted by the fragrance, bewitched by the beauty, the pastel pink delicacy of petals pleading to be picked and blind to the thorns ready to pierce ready to strike, thorns as hidden as the worms, the maggoty munchers now metamorphosing into manifestations of new growth, hands ungloved and unmarked elegantly enticing them to join me in the dark unsettling heart. https://www.exquisitedeathezine.com/rosebush-by-lynn-white.html