I fed my pretty ones this morning, all of them. <br />I gave them thorns mixed with the earth, <br />and they, happily, took what I left <br />as though it were the last time I would weep for them. <br /> <br />I have the very tip of a star hidden in my pocket, <br />and I keep his brother in the pages of my journal, to rot, <br />and to remind me of the things we make room for <br />that will outlive us. <br /> <br />In the regress we find the lost parts of ourselves, <br />sew them to our shadow, iron flat the edges- <br />until we are mistaken for one of the beautiful.<br /><br />Amberlee Carter<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wearing-the-robe-of-the-dead/
