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  Sep 11 n
Em MacKenzie
Someday,
these words I write I’ll eventually say.
That old guitar I might remember to play.
My dreams will find a way,
when there’s hope for someday.

And next year,
I might find I’ve lost another fear,
but along with loss gained another tear.
The words I write you might never hear.

Why I still get up and try,
I can’t lie, I don’t truly know.
But I will myself to rise,
dry my eyes and give it a go.

Tomorrow
I may create a smile from my sorrow,
while living on the time that I borrow;
goes by so fast but feels so slow.

Why I get up and try,
I can’t lie, I don’t truly know.
Because I have yet to die
make a name for I and will it so.

Someday,
these words I write I’ll eventually say.
Create colours in this world of grey,
do my best to make them stay
if there is still hope for someday.
Just a quickie
n Aug 11
sweet and sticky
candied flowers

callouses over the warmest spots
whispers brushing against cool stone

honey drips off your lips
sinking —
into the deepest parts
of all i’ve lost

go slower, take over
consume for hours
never ending, all devour

sunrise coming
trembling, begging
go slower, it’s not over

.
  Jul 12 n
ADoolE
It’s no surprise
that kindness feels so sweet
when you’ve been starving ,
even crumbs are a treat.

It’s easy to miss,
but the truth is this:
a little kindness
can feel like bliss
  Jul 12 n
Agnes de Lods
So many colorful shards,
so many scattered books,
my Father left behind.

He connected the dots
with me, in space and time,
listening to the wind
when it was raining.

Absent and so close,
he used to say:
“Listen to what’s on the ground.
See what lifts us at night
when the birds go silent.”

He gave me more unrest,
he was the left hand
forced to write
with the right.

He believed in me
when the system
sent me away,
dismissed me.

He had hope
without medals,
standing steadfast
in the last row.

Now the body crumbles.
There is a memory
full of holes.
A counting echo—
he remembers,
he doesn’t,
it’s fine,
still hard
but his voice lives…

Time is blending
into a rusted chain
of events.
Tenderness,
resistance
to the falling apart
of departure.

He won’t come back.
He won’t recover.
The body is warm,
life doesn’t want to escape
the shrinking shell.

Sharp words cut helplessness.
Many nights still come
until the final return
to the embryonic state,
to point zero.

I am here,
into this deep night
being the witness to breath,
awake in the dark gentleness.
n Jul 11
I was never one to take
hot showers, but now
the waters scalding.

Hope to numb the pain —
to burn the scent, scar the skin.

The water keeps getting hotter
and hotter,
my bones are growing colder
and colder.
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