a split lip awakens and remembers bare knuckle deep into the wastewater of past haunts evoking that fond, sick memory of the fanciful martyr, someone
They asked me why I don’t often write of the vastness of stars tides of the sea a flower’s bloom bathed in a kiss of
A want for destruction Held by A lack of faith In the oneself Wrapped in your Pious hope Choking on Identity indignation And the suffering
please, indulge me for a moment if you’ve a few to spare as I seize this opportunity at a live, captive audience of one for
Too often, I miss much of the beauty that is right there in front of me. Thankfully, I didn’t miss this . . .
it’s been a long time coming the divisive fracture held much longer than expected through the wind and the rain ever widening, splintering the creaks