Small pages, rimmed with foreign sounding orders Splash on ink to make them monumental. Block the wind that wafts them into yesterday Where all the pills canβt heal a **** That will not hold the stitches.
Little notebooks filled with sentences Dug at great pain from a bruised and bloodied brain Determined to lock away any sheen and glitter On the every day and Sunday-Go-To-Meetinβ words That put emotion on a platter instead of in a locked vault. ljm