9

A thread.

Pictures of her daughter

In frames of Damascene sky.

She skips

A pebble playing with water.

She sleeps,

And eyelids kiss for the first time.

A thread, 

Stitched to a mother's unborn heart,

Waiting for her to finally pause,

Ponder the difference between the sun,

And the glass pyramids she is dedicated to hate.

Treason has a taste,

A swirl of mold and lead.

From a distance I watch,

For a sudden,

Invariably dismissed,

Twitch upon a thread.

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