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unborn and unheard

by Rachelle Howe

The morning rushes in,
a train conducted by the sun.
Atop six-inch stiletto heels,
she steps onto a platform of flesh,
a whistle, and the freight is gone.

07/29/2003

Posted on 07/29/2003
Copyright © 2024 Rachelle Howe

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Max Bouillet on 07/30/03 at 06:19 PM

Everything comes and goes too quickly. Excellent verse with stunning imagery.

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