i have fallen for the romance of the telescope; particular, precise, and in its focus unaware of its peripherals. and mister moon, you are my favourite focus i surrender to your light to forget the darkness that surrounds you: the tussle and tug of war; a labored breath in. you kill me out. resuscitate me i am a damp beige blood casket. you are my carver. and there’s no method in your madness. pai... » Continue Reading
when the tree inevitably tires and lets you go; you will follow where the wind blows, and i hope it takes you to me, my leaf. winter, fall, summer, spring- let the seasons’ moons wane and wax, and let your colours change, but your splendor remains in the lines and intricacies that stroke your very shape. i trace my finger along your grace and, green for the summer or brown for the fall; i feel you... » Continue Reading