there is neither peace nor dream in a day. truth spattered, canvas inundated. bubbles fluid, liquid no longer...
the taste of purple inundation eatery fingers flowing in scratching clutch we hold
there is a chamber there is a heart we dream it we taste it ours, unconditionally
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
for the beauty of the day we wept huddled mass one, singular in thought we
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.
The touch that spans length and difference I feel the distance that he holds captive in heart and… one reach, one touch
it is a numbing a piercing of the proverbial heart with aching, dull shard a cold depth swallowing lungs contract, fluid-filled
She saw them fishing poles in hand, walking fro… Fingers, gnarled, crippled with the passing of age. The skin around their eyes, a cany…
The metaphorical heart Burnt in frozen grasp As the stale air, travels, labored far from memories, moments of horror caught
his gloved hand reaching veiled indifference death of a stolen voice crushing, squeezing
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...
starlight sings silver catalyst for dreams the woosh of the window unit roars with smokey tang on my lips, I shi… shoulder to door pane, perceptions…
yes... a million times over, I sai… to him, to them to everyone, to no one I gave pieces of me Perhaps
