From my previous post... this is the end if the poem by Ted Hughes ... so often so desolate... I love his poems and hate them all at the same time In a kitchen. The moustached goblin savage Nested in a scarf. The bright blank 50 Blind, like an angel, to my meat-crumbs and flies. Then eyelids resting. Wasted clingers curled. The inevitable balsa death. Finally burial For the husk Of my little Apollo - The charred scream Folded in its huge power #swiftawarenessweek

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