Womben

I have been reborn
The clothes I adored are to be re-worn
By myself again

I have been quadrupled in bloom
From my very own flesh
My very own womb
And it has not yet blossomed
It is sweet as the sun
And I am as cold as the moon

Not even my mirror
Or the fuhrer
Nor the keeper
Of cronus’ sleeper
As my glowing caterpillar
Still seems to keep my beauty deeper

How am I not allowed to envy my wombs work?
I breathe out and stare at my own reflection
As it grows out winter to the ‘sember
I am a bird rusted she is a life full of quirk
I no longer glow nor am I unblemished
Bless the porcelain doll she will remain my perfection

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