"arrowheads" poems
Moths float out from behind
an opened, warped door.
I push my face into your clothes,
hung heavy like pearls
in an antique shop.
Stale and familiar,
the scent follows me
like a lost little bee.
It buzzes even after I leave.
Hopscotch down the hallway
to find dead crickets
in the bathtub.
Scuffed wallpaper camouflages
a cobweb. Metallic vines
curve around bursts of petals.
I’m certain you chose this pattern,
but I don't know.
Memories are few.
I fill in the holes with honey
and arrowheads.
Indian feathers and
an old brooch.
Piles of pie.
Did you love to bake pie?
Games of bridge
on that old, scratched table top
with a musty deck of Bicycle cards.
Each deck a photo album
of your face.
Your raisined face.
I remember holding it in my hands.
“This aint a walk for old womans.”
And out the door I go.
Empty handed and independent.
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 7:14 PM UTC
102212
Indian soul I want your bow
Weapon of peace
Instrument of thieves
Gift of the gods
Curse of the slaves
Children of fate
Wait
Revenge finds thee
Sets you free
Rest now
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 12:09 AM UTC
Southwestern Dis-United States of Memory
Piñon smoke and sagebrush, voice of New Mexico night driving into an Arizona dawn rising over dreaming pueblos, low-ridden plazas, kivas and ruined cities’ rubble traced and highlighted by sunlight, Anglo angling into Aztec toward Zuni over arid zones… A to Z to El Dorado; a voice covers the high hills with a dusting of snow—every word hangs in the notes of the song: music to fall apart to, breakdown to, hurling the soul into the bottomless well of psychotic nostalgia: música de cavanga, falling into the depths. Melody pushing to the threshold of a bar and leaving you there with cash in your pocket and no ride home. The warmth inside beckons—you step across as the song fills, swells, intoxicates, then excavates the wall of the dam until it collapses. The fatal mistake: you read too much into the lyrics of shallow love songs. The deathwish beast of despair arises, the flooded plains dazzle your eyes, the Indian girl smiles on the rim of the grand canyon, the tattooed cholo pulls a knife in the trailer park, the dark waters under the bridge murmur and surge with regret; el río de Las Animas, Durango CO, Aztec calligraphy on the wall: Las Cruces, NM; Clifton, Morenci, Globe, AZ: stepped pyramids of copper tailings, gang-warred walls in fallen barrios covered in Chicano hieroglyphics, the ruined huts of shepherds and cowboys, pit-house dwellings’ flaked arrowheads and pottery fragments scattered forever in the coyote laugh of desert dusk. Crepuscular colors on the names of mountain ranges: Santa Catalina, Sangre de Cristo, Sandia, each one a separate sunset delirium—then you ride through the night to the city of palm trees and the orange-lined boulevards of Heaven.
The singer herself grew old but her YouTubes live forever.
Feb 23, 2017
Feb 23, 2017 at 9:37 PM UTC
The Queen of Absentia rises from royal
stool to watch the moon set sheathed
in broiling cloud as she skips whirling
adders that hiss in fat jagged coils, their
hollow blades jutting death in sprinkler
sprays of misting veils and her
head is hypethral; a Gaudi shipping
container soldered in reptile curves,
licked by arrowheads of falcate flame
as she rounds its laughing corners;
an adderaled lab rat, eyes black funnels
drinking electrodes pulsing crimson and
the stars are crackling in the pan as she
sees planets torn shrieking down Hell’s hungry
plughole as fallen Gods divide by zero
and the clock’s skittering claws scratch
prophecies of consequence of poorly
sewn seams, but she smiles like a risen
crocodile and says,
‘you’re just jealous cos the
voices only talk to me.’
And again she dives as unwanted
advice gibbers up out snapping drains,
and power points shoot sharp blue spears
lighting substrates of ancient horror, inchoate
but fattening before her eyes as she
sits, wrapped in ghosts, guarding her
ochre tea in its chalice of steaming bone,
trying to sell herself a ticket to
tomorrow’s sunrise, staring at thunderheads
bunching up satin over sodden ninjas sprouting
cardboard hair, slicing down legions of
roaring pearl as death hunts hollow-eyed below.
Her Majesty holds court, amid the percussion of
steel and plate, a matador to shadows
that clasp their hands and dance around, as
clouds hammer rain to the ground.
Jul 23, 2012
Jul 23, 2012 at 6:44 PM UTC
any ground 18 stood on crumbled as all once-great nations do.
the flame of hope that had kept the lights on
turned and burned down the wooden roofs,
while the archers left arrowheads in flesh.
lakes of insurmountable grief covered the ruins of who she once was.
in moments of cruelty, she could feel the bottom of the waters,
could feel the glory of the old self.
the wickedness was that she did not possess the strength to lift it up again, could not resurface glimmering gems.
left without sight and taste, doomed to the brush of fingertips.
Dec 21, 2021
Dec 21, 2021 at 11:30 PM UTC
I always thought one day I’d write something worth reading
So far, just lines and lines, used up catchphrases
I slumber in the pine needles and breathe in the scent of cut
Juniper
Bathe in the shadow of sundials as the day fades, turns smiles to
moonlit slumber
In the green grass among the dead leaves I lay my head and listen to
leaves changing color
On the cold sand I listen to high tide turn to low, the rolling of the rocks and the
breaking waves of foam
The birds in the trees sing of bamboo forests in her backyard, blue room where she
collected rocks and lucky charms
Books with pages torn out, arrowheads she found in the field, a feather in
her hair
Pale blue eyes which reflected my dullness, reading Camus by the door
She used to read to me, when the sun was sinking and my head was spinning from the
last cigarette
And hold me like a child, hold me with my eyes shut and my lungs screaming to speak one
simple phrase
To grab the pen, to open my eyes and speak symbols onto the page, make my ballpoint
sing
To read a word worth reading, to write a line worth writing, this is my desire
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 10:12 PM UTC
There is no peace at all for the wicked.
Stinging, ruthless words that pierce through mind and heart
Swiftly, precisely, from lips of clay depart
Arrowheads dipped in green poison find their way
To an unwary target, without delay.
There is no peace at all for the wicked.
The tongue is a sinister, crushing weapon
Who dares resurrect one fatally bludgeoned?
“He deserves my verdict!” Rage seethes in defense.
“He smashed my fortress with the least reverence.”
He is without excuse.
Yet the comely victim-prince says, “Follow me…”
He with the sad, compelling eyes
And nail-scarred hands offered gently, steadily
To a soul vanquished by frantic, chaotic “I”
He whose dazzling raiments from the throne hang
unused
Willfully submits to slight, beating, abuse
As leather sandals cushion dusty, wounded feet
He weeps; Fallen creatures smite head and side–they bleed.
Still the comely victim-prince says, “Follow me…”
Now, therefore, beyond excuse,
Man is guilty.
May 21, 2016
May 21, 2016 at 4:45 AM UTC
Passing around a fatal flaw like a joint in a hot box,
Refreshing baths of Coca~Cola and regretful indulgence
We are wasting away in a paradise of my creation
Poems tinted grey through abstinent romanticism,
and an inexplicable undertone inherent to my prose.
As everything starts to return to a drumming constant.
It all sounds the same.
We've been sunbathing in porcelain skies and empty daydreams.
Drab and dreary and acid washed.
Interrupted like a beach by the sea,
By the little pieces of drug soaked warmth that act as comforting distractions.
A smile or a shoulder or a sunny day to drink from.
Summer and solitude, the likeness of warm bodies in a cold pool.
So.
Compose me an opera of Soda Cans and of choral song. Synthesise two bass lines and slow drip coffee and pollen and folk.
Make it for me so I can watch you as you work.
Let me listen and bask in its ludacris vanity, and clean shallow waters.
How I would relish the time spent muddying the current. Destroying the tide I desired out of boredom.
And black hot frustration.
Flowers painted in acid and acrid accounts of repetative revalations in the context of rude rosy cheeked romance.
Blonde haired ignorance and one dimensional delusions.
Blue eyed terrorists armed with air and arrogance.
Give me seatwarmers and handholding
Or corvettes and convertables.
Give me arrowheads and heart attacks
Humble my bones with a cardiac
!F.R.I.E.N.D.S.!
SITCOMS
ADJASENT PLOTLINES
mumble rap
AND ***** TALK HOTLINES
four letter words with little context or meaning and selfless expression that's often demeaning
Its September in January and it rains for a day
And despite all our efforts
The days waste away
Jan 24, 2020
Jan 24, 2020 at 12:26 PM UTC
Are you not what i always wanted ?
if so, i am thankless and crib death mysterious.
i am ****** and clarity
if you are not to be
what's mine.
you are confounding compounded. a rough in the smooth crime.
a jinx in my saving grace... and a loon.
if it be so, that we cannot connect
then let me set my sparrows to arrowheads
and fell the beasties of my wayward
skylarking -
so they may know a noble death in mid-flight
where the downward
and the Midnight are -
eyes, still chirping absurd love
at your dissonance
with cold
blessings.
but give me this.
keep my hands in your robbery.
intertwine my fingers to lay prints
on whatever you stole from god.
let me share the fall
and the fault
so that we may yet share
a single living
Sting.
elsewise,
the ruin and the peck
is only your wound
chirping
and my song is mute
as a victim
in a flock
of ill.
or a grain of hope
in a scarecrow's
eye.
Jun 28, 2014
Jun 28, 2014 at 12:56 PM UTC
near the surface,
just beneath the sounds of our feet
among the bones, are arrowheads
maybe a spent cartridge from the bluecoats
who brought a strange thunder,
disturbing the a cappella birdsong,
deeper
hidden in eons of darkness, unperturbed,
until now, by the shallow, scratching efforts
of the creatures above,
a black organic soup, remnants of plants
and animals who once breathed
like we, we who now voraciously drill
through the tired but tenacious skin
to reach a rich marrow, one we resurrect
to blaspheme in our mobile ovens
and scatter ashes
on a deaf and dying rock
Post Script:
The earth never forgets.
Whatever we do to ****** it is recorded, often in ways undecipherable to man, but etched permanently somehow, somewhere.
Does the earth seek revenge?
Or is it retribution, or a reckoning?
Anything that has the power to recall every act in infinite detail and in perpetuity has the potential to respond.
Maybe a propensity to respond?
Is the earth an angry god?
I do not know, but
the earth never forgets.
Aug 18, 2013
Aug 18, 2013 at 12:04 PM UTC
And ‘panic’ doesn't nearly describe:
Pure oxygen turning sour in lungs,
Meals threatening a return from the stomach,
Twitchy fingers and wobbly legs,
Soreness of a tense body,
Laughs-turned-sobs,
Eyes adorned with purple rings,
A destructive adrenaline that welcomes blood.
The red bag has been replaced (just as I was).
No longer do my weapons sit alongside your arrowheads of safety and legitimate love.
A black casket is their new home, shiny and perfectly angled.
It hides in the farthest reaches of a drawer,
beckoning my hand to let the metal topple out of its dark casing.
Three generations of proving that I’m alive,
that I’m capable of feeling something other than
the feet of someone on top of me or the sting of words meant to be innocent.
And yes, I am stronger than I once was.
But I’m stronger in a different way, in a different sense of the word.
Yes, I am weaker in spirit and weaker in a way that makes
daily thoughts into nightmares.
But I am stronger in body.
I am ready for the war this time, and I swear to Orion that I won’t let
my lack of muscle mass or the words ‘replaced’ and ‘forgotten’
etched across my thighs and hip bones hold me back from fighting.
I will throw punches until my arms lay limp and
I will kick until my feet are bleeding and my toes are broken.
Nov 10, 2012
Nov 10, 2012 at 2:14 PM UTC
December 18th, 2018
I've been running down this
Snow-covered road
For fourteen miles
With arrowheads
Pierced through
The bridges of my feet
Extremities turning blue, then black
You can't turn back now, face it-
"Twelve inches overnight", they said
We reap what we sow, echoing...
A whisper ran beside me
Running off the road - into the woods
I followed-
Until we reached the lake
Frozen almost to the center
I laid down, began making snow angels
Looking up at old light and dancing trees
I hope the ice cracks reach me-
Before they do
Apr 12, 2019
Apr 12, 2019 at 1:00 PM UTC
Sun rays roll down the green grass & ochre weeds
Yellow, bitter, flowers, litter the hillside
Long red rays turning pink as split figs
Orange as hot coals, blue as the ocean
Then the bustle of twilight, such noise
Streaking headlights fade into receding redness
Carrying their sound with them, down the road
Figures, sillouhetes, wander by me, quiet conversations
Wind stirs their outlines, rustles their clothing, their hair
Bringing me the scent of dust, of split juniper
Darkness descends, but it cannot ***** out street lights
Or the flourescent floodlights, glaring artifical brightness
Or the blinking red eyes of radio masts
I'll peddle back now, chased by headlights
Down black asphalt roads, black as the night
Radiated heat, gathered from this boiling day
Sweat pouring down my face, into my eyes
Breath tearing at my chest, blood racing through veins
I have to outrun the night, to make it on time
To that quiet destination, a little room on the second story
With a chair, a desk, a shelf full of unread books
A yellow notepad, a pen that doesn't work so well
Arrowheads and unshaped stones, a bullet on the dresser
My grandpas old knife, a symbol of the ****** Mary
Your charms that you carelessly left behind
A small tiled room with a shower to stand under
Watch it drain away, dirt & soap, all of it
A face stares back at me, changed, distorted
A reflection in the mirror, a reflection that was me
Oct 4, 2010
Oct 4, 2010 at 5:09 AM UTC
I used to keep a bell jar
full of old fine fishing line
arrowheads, gold coins
and stuff not easy to find
like cherry cured shine from
my mountains of Tennessee
buried in a lunch bucket
twelve paces from the coop
waiting for the moon
who took his own sweet time
slower than a long night
listening to the same hoot
of the same old hoot owl
in the same old dying tree
knowing it was the end
of my days on the Creek
me, I could see it coming
like a dead star's light
from so long ago
I couldn’t possibly know
which old road I’d follow
so holler at me my
friends, my loves
from time to time
wherever you be
whenever your heart strings
are feeling a need
to tell this spirit of mine
your sorrows, your joys
or wishes for
better tomorrows
and I will from somewhere
be there with open arms
and ears and a heart
sewn tight with that jar
of invisible string
that binds our lives together
forever and longer than that
light from a dead star still
burning on shining so bright.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 10:26 PM UTC
*What mighty importance
rests so fat on the shoulders of you
that i'm refused
the right to lay love where I want it grown?
Bonds can loosen
Loads you've carried furthest can be shared
I know Trust is earned
but it's Earnest too, when I demonstrate it purely,
Laying all my bones
at all your doors as promises and gifts
I'll even renew - if you want -
That honest vow to remember all your birthdays
to Topple on your soul
If you need the weight of someone not you.
Can we be side by side
In a blurred rush towards the singularity?
or Am I the ***
you lead to water - am I the water itself?
Don't let me place-hold
or keep the seat warm for overdue truths
There's no need
to balance each other's acts of self sabotage
Or to pretend
Either of us is any more than what we are
We both understand
That grace is to us just brightly coloured feathers.
Please let us be safe
Together, in that disappointing mess
And let me work
on Those snags of control and owning and having
Because I don't remember
how you became confection behind a window
What made me
Treat you as the best since...sliced boys
but My diet did change
I didn't want to spoil you for lesser bread
and Now a hunger
and rot collide in the vacant spaces you're yielding.
Is it an upset
to cry at your objection to my care
Or when I kick
and scream at the labels you stick to me
When you call me
callous Hysterical and paranoid to preoccupation
Incurring open fire
and pointed barbs about your ***** Mother
Who ruined you for women, love
You, who will only ever be half aware of this and that.
I'll go willingly though
on display, to be mocked in silent penance
For What else next
but to try to hold you to me
To try to sit as still
As time and light do for me when you move in my direction
and Be as hard
as your endorsement makes me.
But for all the noise
Of our collapsing walls and siege machinery
The poison
that may never fully be drawn.
You are here.
I am here.
What else are we gonna do.*
Jul 8, 2016
Jul 8, 2016 at 7:22 AM UTC
Skies stretch sparks to light the damp ground
And I watch, chuckling by the lambs
Lapping the waves that smack tastily at their feet
And bring in the harvest for the day.
The sun bows its head
And sea makes its sleep
For it to hide amongst the bubbles
Until the Night claps it awake.
Footprints stretch up the beach made
Of arrowheads and other cobbled things
You're there, you're there
Pulling me to your place.
Warm, shivering houses, of
Wooden overcoats and salty lashings
Made wind by fervent tides
Desperate to huddle in and hear stories
Of your uncle, your father, your brother's ruddy cheeks,
But you have eyes with me
And we lend them together to the fire
To hear of orcs, of brochs and angry kings, far away.
The howling streets meet no one,
And pirates prowl their decks to see
A glimpse of my island girl
As she holds my arm cased in wool
Blond hair crying to the floor.
For I am a story, you see, I know what I have when I have it
And salt, quiet lamp-lit salty living
Make ancient ages while keeping,
The mainland for themselves.
Good thing I have her,
So I can share in what she calls home
So I can lie in the lavender in Summer
And cry with the Winter rain when she's gone.
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 6:56 PM UTC
The delusional expectancy of arriving to a unified decision under a false, and somewhat mysterious banner leaves the tender footed Neanderthals to drawl and crawl towards their inevitable demise, at the hands of a lesser evil, catering to their cowardice, the ultimate usurper.
…
Barriers formed and forged in concrete molds left behind by a war mongering ancestry devoured by their ****** progeny.
An enemy approaches…
Throne rooms held in recessed hills, concealed in a shroud of fog, left off by the chilled steam stewing off yesteryears loss.
Heroes transported on expensive tapestry, in banners provoking deeds of old, and the memory of their meaning.
Hold in masses of collected honor.
Catapulted horrors break the line.
Strains of panic retreat in woeful singularity.
Fear infects the herd as arrowheads of cowardice break the chain-mail guard.
Women and children pushed behind a diseased king as he purges his principles in the face of death.
He seals the entrance in stone.
A son, known for his great misdeeds, and vast misfortunes takes step before his small family as the army approaches.
In a hallowed tomb as a mere boy, he heard the tune, uttered from the devil’s lips.
A summoning song.
Here he sings the treacherous tune as the sounds of heavy marching fill the halls.
The last barrier breaks.
Shrieks of terror erupt.
Demise is at hand.
Men lose their valor as they turn and flee, only to be met by a concrete reminder of their inevitable fatality.
The child’s voice grows demonic as the words begin to devour his soul.
There’s an odd presence in the room.
Death is prolonged…momentarily.
A void is opened.
The army begins to flee.
Victory is at hand.
Then the illusion of their invasion lifts, as soldiers, once more than visible, turn to ghosts, and finally fade from battle.
Cheers break out, only for a moment.
A hole opens in the center of the room, at first no larger than the size of a pin, but it expands outward at an alarming pace.
Guards scramble to funnel their people out of the breach.
An evil comes forth, once barred from the walls of this land.
It antagonizes the people with tales of its delusional sorcery.
Then thanks the young boy who brought it forth.
A world is soon devoured.
The end.
Jan 13, 2015
Jan 13, 2015 at 3:31 PM UTC
Worded arrowheads
are fastened to shafts.
They rain down on
our Love-fed ears.
Bowstring at ready
pulled back high-sky,
They strike down all
who lived this earth.
My soul, infringed,
asked, "How can this be,
with heart shut tight
from melancholy?"
Closed cold, a shield,
I thought could withstand
the force of a blow
guided not by your hand.
The force of a blow
guided not by your hand.
In time the sands
will salt our land.
Your words will crop
my sagging skin
and feed the ground
with hollow chest.
Death for the young
never-held as best,
but for this earth
a heart at rest.
But for this earth,
put Death to rest.
The price of youth,
pays for the best.
Sep 13, 2012
Sep 13, 2012 at 11:43 PM UTC
At Singing Hills
Down upon the earth, boy,
brushing dirt from broken flints.
The woman, tall, in khaki pants,
slowly stands and squints.
Down upon the earth with
pockets full of stones.
A hundred yards across the land
where knife-grass spears the sand
a bullsnake sleeps in sunlight.
Speak of arrowheads and Utah,
you,
with dignified excitement;
speak of ostrich eggs!
You and I, she'd say,
Galapagos!
Where armored turtles
heave their bulks across the land.
Here Mother Earth lies naked
to her bones.
Flint bones,
in sun as white as lamplight.
With your Thermos cup in hand
talk of arrowheads again—
or Galapagos—
Where giant turtles rule the land!
Feb 1, 2017
Feb 1, 2017 at 4:05 PM UTC
Three children brought
Onto earth
Three children did
He rear
Three children made
From His own genes
From stardust we appeared.
From the foundation
Of our lives
He sent us to school
Possessed of his intelligence
And HE was NOT a fool
Great aptitude for reading
This is how he taught
The books my father gave me
Produced much
Higher thought
We went to places
far & wide
Hawaii was like heaven!
We went to Montreal
For Expo '67
Various religions
We were to understand
We went to see the kivas
In the native lands
We went to search
For arrowheads
We looked for
various traces
Of native habitation
Appreciating other races
He tried to teach me math
Using the flashcards
But I was into writing
So he let me be a bard
He loved the
arts & sciences
He loved agriculture
He grew up
deprived of it
So he taught us culture
We took the piano
He helped me
make a start
Writing my own music
He encouraged my art!
I'll read him this poem
We will then discuss
How he has the
GREATEST legacy
*For my dad has US!*
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 3:31 PM UTC
One wears the wages of sin
As war's protecting bibs
Where arrowheads of flight
Cannot pierce the pump within
Taste the salt upon the sea
The sea where sins are drowned
Upon the hearts that sit on sleeves
The head of smiles we crown
Back across the cross we bear
Hear the pounding of the condemned
Perhaps we will never be more
Than the crown of thorns we wear
So the cherry tree has fallen
It's bark black with disease
Lime should cure the problem
I will be planting trees
Apr 29, 2016
Apr 29, 2016 at 3:38 AM UTC
*What was the inspiration
for country ponds , for carefree
bodies of water nurturing native songs
Filling young hearts , blue mirrors with tall pine edges ,
carefree days 'neath cozy river birches
Dragonfly prancers and rock bass river dancers ,
sultry bullfrog diddies , red clay marsh , rolled up
britches , sacks of sandwiches , straw hats ,
cardinals , egrets , herons , chickadees and finches
Rain cooled July breezes , row upon row of knee high corn ,
blackberry , blueberry and dewberry thorns
Songs of the creek , of highland hayfield and crystal clear rivers
Tales of arrowheads , tomahawks and hawk feather quivers
The confluence of neighboring streams
The story of piedmont dreams*
Mar 14, 2017
Mar 14, 2017 at 6:17 PM UTC
We begin to touch from fingertips to flesh, that’s how we introduce ourselves. We’re naturally compelled to to feel each other’s energy.
My fingertips are encoded with my identity. They are imprinted with twist and turns, a blueprint of my chemistry.
They extend beyond my reach. Grasping at life, taking in everything it returns. They may be burned while touching the flame or met with warm hands just the same.
My fingertips dance gracefully over goose-bumps and soft skin. They feel the rhythm of deep breaths and skipped heart beats that begin to beat again.
They palpate rough stones in cool river beds. They caress raw edges of ancient arrowheads.
My fingertips have healed broken hearts and past regrets. They mend sore feet and weak spines. They feel for the lone tear drops that are intertwined with high fives and laugh lines.
Like branches seeking light they reach out for love. Past tangible offerings seeking all the things that can’t be touched.
Sep 28, 2016
Sep 28, 2016 at 1:08 AM UTC
For me we it
comes realizing later
that Chris Cornell is gone
same as Dad but different still
we have our Garden
of Sound with weeds sprouting against
the grim Cutter hoping
for a missed experienced
Maybe the refugee's trauma
have dried all the tears on
lonely crowded airfields
of a long ago Vietnam seeding
salt from a Grandmother, mother,
father, aunts and uncles,
paladins in our child eye dry
because of the stampeding Thestrals
we shouldn't see
And now almost 50 we know
better the slings and arrowheads
of fortune the calcifying currency
souls make by roughing the round edges
of damning tears scattered like petals
over littered cigarettes killing
us softly because they've metastasized
from intellectualized Lung ****
to a flowering carcinoma
Aug 2, 2017
Aug 2, 2017 at 8:31 AM UTC
Taste
new words
to see
it through.
a pseudo
synaesthesia
grown easy
on the eyelet,
fits, apparently
awake
the derelict
convictions
say,
it cannot be
this much is all
The All, we are
to ever have
and less the time
to take
Seems aeons
since the badlands
let, their Agincourt
of arrowheads,
projecting from
the epicentred
tragedies
of Your
a softer
vector
than before
yet, pertinent,
as ever
Their
ambient
trajectories
descending
back to you
Jul 23, 2022
Jul 23, 2022 at 5:21 AM UTC