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Suspension poem by Caroline Tiss

 Suspension 

It never was the sort of thing that caused the bough to break,

As I bleed she watches me with her pure heart,

Here I am, the weighted end of the scale of justice,

Staring at my virtuous sun,

Her gaze pities me,

What good is pity if my river is red with blood from my heart,

Sympathy will not save you,

So it is not a virtue,

Do not patronize me with your ivory,

I do not regret a thing. 


 

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