• Rose Pedretti


The depression in my chest—a desolate field

inhabits shallow breaths and hollow bones,

discarded sentiments of hope.

This cavity, once a blooming garden,

is a withering wasteland.

Iris buds cower

in the face of the

scorching sun.

This space

craters me.

I must be the one

to nurture the sprouts

back to good health,

so that they will one day

be able to bloom and share

their beauty with the rest of the world.

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