his gloved hand reaching veiled indifference death of a stolen voice crushing, squeezing
The metaphorical heart Burnt in frozen grasp As the stale air, travels, labored far from memories, moments of horror caught
base of an eggshell in a portrait of painting she is pure canvas had I been a painter she would direct turpentine
his exit, his entrance stars in solemn shades countdown in pink orbs we, burning out suns commencing solitude
yes... a million times over, I sai… to him, to them to everyone, to no one I gave pieces of me Perhaps
it is a numbing a piercing of the proverbial heart with aching, dull shard a cold depth swallowing lungs contract, fluid-filled
She walked the raised concrete streets, built from the backs of someone whom she didn’t know. She walked the raised concrete streets, surrounded by creatures of origin. The rain cascade...
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.
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
and in that tear, everything broke every shard of pain, every loss the losses yet to come her voice, her heart caught
there is a chamber there is a heart we dream it we taste it ours, unconditionally
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
the taste of purple inundation eatery fingers flowing in scratching clutch we hold
She saw them fishing poles in hand, walking fro… Fingers, gnarled, crippled with the passing of age. The skin around their eyes, a cany…
