My mind is not black.
My mind is not black, even
if my words are ashen.
I write about a Cimmerian Fog,
but I am not black.
I have been carved like a pumpkin.
I am dying just like that.
Every day, I sit on a porch
waiting to start the process of rot.
It is slow,
and so I move like honey
wishing to be baked in a hot, hot oven
where warm hands will pull
me out hungrily
and eat me.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 
Great poem, Maggie. Your words have so much texture and visual stimulation. I couldn’t wait to read the next line. Good for you! š
š Thank you for reading. And for commenting!!
Great!
Amazing writing. Just stunning imagery.
š Thank you so much for your comment and for reading.
Ooh, very intense poem, yet with this scent of baking to relieve it a bit. Some salvation. k.
š thank you. I try to put some bit in there š
Wow! Very well written. Would love to get your opinion on my work as well.
thank you very much! I’d love to if you’d like.
Wonderful, vivid, living imagery ! I see you falling in slippery chunks and yet subsisting. Wonderful !~Deborah
Your work often leaves me reaching, thinking, pondering…That’s part of its wonderfulness!