his exit, his entrance stars in solemn shades countdown in pink orbs we, burning out suns commencing solitude
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 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 gloved hand reaching veiled indifference death of a stolen voice crushing, squeezing
it is a numbing a piercing of the proverbial heart with aching, dull shard a cold depth swallowing lungs contract, fluid-filled
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
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...
the taste of purple inundation eatery fingers flowing in scratching clutch we hold
for the beauty of the day we wept huddled mass one, singular in thought we
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...
there is a chamber there is a heart we dream it we taste it ours, unconditionally
and in that tear, everything broke every shard of pain, every loss the losses yet to come her voice, her heart caught
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…
