I come in peace, but not meekly. My hands are open and unarmed; I reach them but do not cover them in the colors of the soil that breathes through the pores of culture and cries poetry into the dailyness of what is and must. I come in peace, but not meekly; I neutralize and […]
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All I know of life is that it changes. These words, I have written but they can’t be written enough, battered into the daily slow pondering — — too minute to notice — — blink-and-you’ll-miss-it time passing life passing — in a second over, rebuilt in a lifetime that could last anywhere between a breath
There are strange flowers growing in the garden of my mind. Insidious weeds, they are, but delicate: fresh, luminous things that light the night, throwing shadows like full moon light. I’ve seen them before, these flowers, and too many years of plucking them and giving them to the wrong person has left me suspicious, unsure
