Branches bare, bald, as you used to be,
when you were in remission,
You say bare trees are ugly.
Did you enjoy being
Tag: readings
MY ANGEL CHILD, Poetry by Cleo Patra
Touching my stomach with trembling butterfly fingers
Knowing I’d never feel you growing in me
Earthquake tremors ripped my tortured heart to pieces
My eyes swam in my blue-stormy tears
WILDsound Festival 