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the rest cure

there is no comfort to be found

within victorian convention

this captivity no creature should endure

no good can come from listening to strawberry blossoms whispering

no monstrous appetite sated by the peeling of yellow wallpaper

retreat is not a form of living

it is the wrought iron gate to demise

against the canvas of the city

i choose to paint my remaining days

a place where movement indicates life

and pastured cemeteries

are but an ending

i have not yet written

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