Autobiography of a Face<\/em> is a famous memoir by the poet Lucy Grealy. I always thought it was excellent and intriguing title as it can be interpreted in so many ways.For hour 10 your prompt is to write a poem with the title Autobiography Of A Face<\/em>. Autobiography of A Face<\/p>\n The eagles perch on my wrinkles. Autobiography of a Face is a famous memoir by the poet Lucy Grealy. I always thought it was excellent and intriguing title as it can be interpreted in so many ways.For hour 10 your prompt is to write a poem with the title Autobiography…<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":662,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-10519","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10519","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/662"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=10519"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10519\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":14898,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/10519\/revisions\/14898"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=10519"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=10519"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/thepoetrymarathon.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=10519"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\n———————————————————————————————————————–<\/p>\n<\/div>\n
\nFacial hair of moss, grown over decades.
\nRain has worn me down, now I slip away
\ninto a gorge. A river runs through.
\nI take my steps slowly, winding through the
\nmountains and gripping the peak.
\nThe trees that have emerged, like happy blemishes,
\nreach out to grab the last droplets of sunlight.
\nTime affects me little, but the climbers
\nblister my hide with spray paint, hooks and ropes,
\nthey are changing me with every foothold.
\nA dark shadow cast by thunderstorms gently rises on
\nmy skin. My fears are met by miners, who
\nthrash about with heavy machinery\u2014clawing and scarring me
\nfor the treasures found within. I\u2019ll take my time and remember
\nwhat it was like back then. When the hordes of man had yet
\nto leave the jungles and meadows, when I was visited
\nonly by beasts and things. When I was a nest and not a
\nresource.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"