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Wild Dawn

Beneath cold rushing water
lies a heart shaped stone
washed smooth,
grey,
a solid piece of storm.
Within this stone thrashes
all of the wild.
 
I was washed up too
on that river bank,
grey mist dawn,
a stone in my chest
black and cracked,
rough as my unshaven chin.
I burrowed into my mud,
dragging that cracked heart free
and slipped the wild dawn stone
in its place.
Sunrise,
gold,
spring morning.

Go to Adam Pettet's profile to read more poems