Living in a cyst, it would explore the breast. The black ethics goes beyond the bounds of mystique of non-movement. A while away a conflict comes out of the body. Melts into a face. There is no flesh, no skin.
What implorations do they trace? These crooked legs in convulsion These crawly things in deathly grace What feeling evoke, what compulsion? The crushed mass on concrete floor In pasty death mocks my wisdom Should I act, or do I ignore
shaped from the tiny fragmentation of the impulse in my mind blinded by the mere silence in its brigade of solemn tenderness alone I sit on a high hill visually seeing the passerbys visit then leave a quaint encounter to
Having to forget you is a misconception. I understand that things happen and these things we often have no control over. Consequence. Watching the boat leave it’s pier is one of the most beautiful things. My honest opinion. The beginning
Sometimes, I just want to fly away and sit by a coast dotted with tiny creeks and gaze at the pebbles sleeping peacefully at the bottom of the stream while drenching my feet in water as pure as an infant.