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Poetry & Art

For my mother…

There is no equivalent

No refurbished measurements

There are no realignments

Empty means having nothing inside; no elements

I wish I could hide behind the curtain of grief.

Rearrange the wilting flowers,

Repaint the colors of the pictures,

Write all the words I never actually wrote; thinking there was more time

Instead,

I am swerving through the currents of the day

Watching the sun rise,

Typing hollow words into a phone

Seeing the world through a broken prism

My hand still reaches for yours when the ground seems unsafe

And my eyes still wander to the door, thinking you will enter

But what has been the hardest thing of all,

Is I cannot rearrange time

Stand at the easel and paint your life again

And give it a different end

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by Kristina Hopper

A complicated soul, who happens to write poetry

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