Contemplating, resting spot.
Pillow made of gouda…
Seams to rip spaghetti strings from my cranium.
Since I felt everything, I told them.
Awash with empty containers of cream.
Glass diamond, heart of cheese.
Centered, I used to feel mozzarella.
Sadly, those days left when she did.
Easily broken peace; lost & grating
Marble and Gorgonzola, sliced with care.
String broke again weakness of green.
Without climate control.
These actions. These feelings.
Mold.
So I tore off before you could retrieve me.
Too close.
I ran from mighty cheese.
Fermenting in unknown cave.
Without purpose…
Will I be gruyère or the grave?
What will I become?
Maybe just rind, garbage.
Nothing to be save.
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