there is neither peace nor dream in a day. truth spattered, canvas inundated. bubbles fluid, liquid no longer...
all the poetry inside, the curtain… dropping dusty upon the frailty of my words the world, too old my thoughts, too young, too same
I list their names on my heart Count them... ad nauseum, infinity… They, who sew my shroud. I list their names on my heart They, who released it
He speaks with a purpose that dema… with soft, soliloquy of word to sh… the emulsification, the blood of b… and women carrying the weight of m… Storyteller. Anthropologist.
his exit, his entrance stars in solemn shades countdown in pink orbs we, burning out suns commencing solitude
my heart has rooms that sigh filled with dust of disuse, of mis… Waking world
his gloved hand reaching veiled indifference death of a stolen voice crushing, squeezing
eyes awaken, asleep. I dream the taste of purple I dream the touch of you. I dream of tall grass fields on my… shuddering in magnificent breath.
it was a blank page. Her hardened gaze caused no words to appear. No flourishing language to embellish the explanation.No distractions to explain the lack of written monologue. Not even...
and in that tear, everything broke every shard of pain, every loss the losses yet to come her voice, her heart caught
The metaphorical heart Burnt in frozen grasp As the stale air, travels, labored far from memories, moments of horror caught
for the beauty of the day we wept huddled mass one, singular in thought we
there is a chamber there is a heart we dream it we taste it ours, unconditionally
it is a numbing a piercing of the proverbial heart with aching, dull shard a cold depth swallowing lungs contract, fluid-filled
The touch that spans length and difference I feel the distance that he holds captive in heart and… one reach, one touch
