Mar 2013
thorns poke through
my palms. all belongs
to gravity but not yet my rose,
resting on my undaunted fist.
it will wither unceremoniously and
i will have only holes in my hands.
my palms. all belongs
to gravity but not yet my rose,
resting on my undaunted fist.
it will wither unceremoniously and
i will have only holes in my hands.
