"recessed" poems
They drove me across the country,
from the busy city where we departed
to intimate villages where they recessed,
and spent a star filled, moonlit night
singing songs,
their bodies casting long, wavy shadows
from campfires they huddled around.
Just as I got too cold and my wheels
couldn't turn anymore
did they finally turn the spark plugs,
revving and igniting my despair and sensitivity
producing heat.
Sometimes they pushed
until I shoved
and scraped my rubber
on asphalt,
on rocks,
on sand,
on boulders big and small,
and I hit a flat-line;
the air I could hold in
no longer.
They rode me into a forest
whose undergrowth was as thick
as a bears' fur during the winter,
and redwood that spanned the horizon
you thought it could pat the constellations.
A forest teeming with life that
one would react like Wendy from Peter Pan--
never wanting to leave Neverland.
And I could see it in their
soft faces and squinting eyes,
bright and lit up with joy,
every detail apparent
as if I burst my headlights into high-beam,
directly on them.
It was there I ran out
of gas and my engines
parched for oil,
from the endless adventure
that was exhilarating and memorable.
One could, as a result,
easily forget responsibilities.
There was no service or refill station nearby,
so I was abandoned where I parked,
flat tires, rusty hood, broken chassis,
dilapidated suspension.
I've proved my worth
from when I was brought in
and over time
it wasn't enough.
Only repairing, never maintaining.
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 2:11 AM UTC
(Plaster cast at Pompeii)
[THE TOUR GUIDE]
*“Ladies and gentlemen, here we are at Pompeii's
fabled Thermal Baths where heated water was
passed through duct work in the walls. One can
imagine Nero himself stopping here on one of
his visits.”*
[BONITO]
Bonito stepped out of the bathhouse and looked up.
Vesuvius rumbled - shaking ash and fire skyward.
Breaking into a run he sought the south road,
glancing back anxiously at the
vast dark cloud billowing down the mountain.
*"The principal city roads were recessed
and wagons were required to have standardized
wheelbases and clearances to fit in channels cut
into the stone. Follow me please to the residential
area.”*
He gained the road and his feet
pounded the stones of the “via stabiana.”
The cloud multiplied and fell on the city.
Ever deepening layers of ash clogged Benito’s path.
Heart pounding in his chest he lengthened his strides.
*“Leaving the opulent villas with their spacious
atria, we now enter the market area where we
shall see a display of remarkable interest. During
excavations, empty spaces were discovered in
the ash deposits.”*
The rising ash captured his left leg.
Bonito inhaled the fiery air and ******
forward into a burst of falling soot
but was unable to finish his stride.
*“Archaeologists poured plaster into the voids
revealing the outlined bodies of Pompeiins
trapped in their final moments. Take, for example,
this man caught in mid-step with no time
to escape the life choking dust.”*
June, 2006
Jul 30, 2013
Jul 30, 2013 at 1:32 PM UTC
Every passing moment
Caught staring at the blissful sky
Decorating the ceiling
Awash in the glow
Of light that hides away just out of frame
It's been burning low
Thoughts of my life still beckon, as the world takes a somber tone
But the timing is right, pulled in this effortless misdirection
It's numbing
Found myself here
Why isn't that enough...
A gilded cage. Maybe
I guess
I'd rather let the summer air drench the weathered wood
Another recessed cycle, all timeless til its over
Lie here lifeless
With nothing left to fight
Only time
Nov 23, 2017
Nov 23, 2017 at 11:44 PM UTC
When many days had passed, whence memories blurred with time
And in secret banks were stored, but left unguarded since their prime,
A photo whose fresh recall did unwanted thoughts evoke
Whose owner couldn't but lapse and yet-untapped sorrow provoke.
As if by divine scheme derived or as the Fates would have it designed,
The sickened world he saw with all its lust and love deprived
The illness was their absence, and the world he madly cursed
For its fate and his aligned, conspired and scheme rehearsed.
A more sorrowful realization into those memory banks recessed,
Such thought-provoking power there couldn't another photo possess
But how perfect that this one should a saddest thought impart
To whom unwelcomed gifts as such affected more the heart.
Aug 30, 2012
Aug 30, 2012 at 10:27 PM UTC
Imperfections
The kindest evidence the savior passed was the marks he bestowed in the most gentile articulation in this
His wise choices matched imperfection to our needs. One of the most telling attributes of women can be
Her hands but what if they are slightly marred the grace only flows to a deeper level quickness is
Replaced by deliberate action slower more thoughtful and profound a touch placed with this kind of
Feeling goes to a measure instantly felt it is not just the ordinary but a thing of force that unravels
Trouble mysteriously it finds the hidden knots looses them allows love to flow wide and full. Perhaps a
Man no longer strides with a power that has an assurance maybe he is depended on a stick for support
Where power is diffused it only changes channels it makes the heart stronger the eyes feel it too
Humanity in others is recessed the blunder the self efficiency drains from boisterous streams into calm
Assessment a flow that harnesses possibility not vain bravado that can at times wound those who are
Weaker and that are struggling. If times try men’s souls then imperfection can be a clarion call the
Placement of virtue at the lead where sometimes pride is the driving force this writing came from seeing
A woman walking in a sunny scene and she had a blotchy spot on her arm others could observe this and
Be to one degree or another repulsed but to the man who loves her it is a special calling card it
Touches makes the forces revel in a display that sets her apart from all others an instrument of sound
That separates from the den isolates carries a marker that generates tenderness, esteem, and honor
Thou art the tune and sound of a masterful violin play nothing else in my presence nothing else will do
Your imperfections makes another whole don’t ever fret over your special make up it is the breath and
The visitation of the divine in the human form boldly brushed in the shadow perfected by sun light.
Nov 24, 2011
Nov 24, 2011 at 2:16 PM UTC
clutching at pebbles
thrown hard into sky as birds
bitter yolk of unceasing raindrop
ideals personified, then scattered in leaf
a coarse blending of the soul and what is
scream of forgotten swing alone in sunshine
a fear internalized, an unquenched song of watery despair and silence
pacing, pacing, toward and away from a melody that is
as intangible as balloons whispering to decaying stars
fading into nothingness, brief respite, void of sound, emptiness most
profoundly pierced with kaleidoscopic shards of senses and memory;
with music of blueberries, gleefully dropped
into tinny pails overflowing from wistfulness
with touch of unblossomed rosebuds admired,
unyielding like crabapples moist in calloused palms
with smell of tree, unrepentant and unchanging,
yet gnarled and longing, indistinct, uncertain
with taste of wind, speckled purity of truth elusive,
of realization categorized, of wispy but unrelenting passion
with the image of a hope
etched, recessed, scorned, repressed, grasped, suspended in song
the maybe’s and the why’s
the can’t’s and the shouldn’t’s
the have-to’s and the why’s
then slowly fingers defiantly uncurl from stone, in motion unrefined
and quietly, fervently; quietly, fervently, I begin to sing...
a mottled snapshot of my mind.
Jun 4, 2010
Jun 4, 2010 at 8:40 PM UTC
In the black of night,
one winter long ago,
the bones spoke to me
from their perch upon
a tomb.
Creaking in the cold,
and shining brightly by
the light of the moon.
“Come and speak,”
they called, but the voice
was only an echo.
I stepped forward
in the crackling snow, and
the bones leaned forth.
“It’s grown cold, and
we are lonely,” they said.
“Who are you?”
“We are the Dead,”
they replied.
Silence stretched out
across the graveyard
and snow began to wander lazily
from the heavens.
It gathered on the bones,
who did not move.
They peered down to me,
empty sockets where eyes once sat,
then dried to dust.
“What need do the dead have of visitors?”
I asked.
The skull cocked to one side,
and the gathered snow slid
from its gleaming dome.
“The Dead need and want
all those things which have
long lost meaning to the Living.
We have as much right to company,
and twice the need.
The cold earth is also
dark, and silent.
It is there the Dead go mad.”
The snow tumbled down,
another layer upon another,
and neither of us stirred.
I watched a trickle of blood
flow from a socket of the skull,
sliding down to color its teeth
a dark crimson.
A single drop fell
from its mouth,
impacting upon the snow
at the foot of the tomb.
The dark red stain
spread across the snow
of the yard,
turning it to
a tundra of blood.
The gravestones stood high
above the bloodied freeze,
and high above them all
stood the tomb.
Sitting there,
the gleaming, bleeding,
grinning bones.
“It is there the Dead go mad,”
they repeated.
The insane screams of a thousand dead souls
pierced the silence of the night,
and the tombstones crumbled
into the snow.
The ground swelled
as if turned to a vengeful red sea,
and spat the bodies below to the surface.
A mass of bone, flesh
and dirt replaced the
snow around me.
The bones above gazed out
upon the carnage,
jaw agape.
Screaming.
Louder than ever,
unmuffled by the earth,
the bodies of the dead shrieked to the heavens.
The gray winter clouds above
turned to soot
and fell from the sky.
The full moon burst into view,
casting its cold glare
upon the horror.
The Dead writhed and shrieked,
bony fingers and heels digging
at the ground around them.
Rotting flesh fell from muscle,
muscle fell from bone.
From atop the tomb,
the bones turned back
to me, screaming
“IT IS THERE THE DEAD GO MAAAAAAD!”
The skeleton burst into dust
and rained down upon me.
And the screaming ceased.
Slowly, slowly,
the writhing bodies
grew still.
Their eyes,
cold and bright,
stared wide at the sky above.
My ears rang with their screams.
I shuddered.
The bodies recessed
back into the earth.
Soot rose back to the heavens
to cover their watchful eye.
Looking back to the tomb,
I saw the bones returned
to their perch.
But now they gazed upon me
with my own eyes.
“It is here,” they said.
And I could not look away.
“The Dead go mad,”
I answered.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 5:39 PM UTC
Gave of salacious self, your just due
My one and only dream I wanted to come true
Earthbound after a meteorite crash
Healing properties within this castaway shall come to pass
Wings has been tenderly clipped
The aftermath of a silent emotional eclipse
Walking, running, and soaring, keep flapping but slowly slipping
Heartbeat dipping, ripping
Slowly suffocating as I’m contemplating
Feelings keep overruling, dominating
Restless from stagnation
Mental searching for relocation
Suspended, spent, recessed from the relent
In the hunt for a pleasurable escape to soar to the sky
No questions no earthly whys
A Galactic Dream Weaver
Da Vinci Code, I’m picking up my telephone receiver
The Holy Grail secrets for my mind to set sail
The marooned answers found in life’s details
Standing in vain, waiting for a starship from a cosmic believer
No expressive deceivers
My Mazda 5, an Uber, or a Lyft driver can’t get me up there
Without restraints, I need to inhale celestial air
Showered by a beautiful spiritual given rainbow
Sentiments offered from a treasured chest as they stream when they softly flow
A Gordian knot devoid of hope, a beanstalk, for me, too slow
Something one must know
As your presence comes to offer me a sweet riding tow
Spirit is now on the run
Trying to astral plane beyond the sun
I need to glance down from the stars
Up and beyond, emotions, mistakes seem so miniscule and far
The beginning, the ending, where I descended
The integrity of a tattered angel, a cocoon of self, until my cerebral cortex is Heavenly mended
As my earthly presence blends within
Keeping a rein on life’s sins
I do not know if my salsa dance has come to an end
The absence of loss as emotions reflect to bend
Does time ever remain the same
Please don’t forget my name
On the contrary
For the love given from a twinkling star, and a kiss from an earthbound fairy
Sep 5, 2018
Sep 5, 2018 at 11:15 AM UTC
The day’s last rays shone over the mountain,
Warming my face as I take in the surrounding.
Orange to red, purple to blue,
The mythical sky embraced every hue.
Then from the ridge soared a great Bald White Eagle,
Perching on a close branch, exalted and regal.
Fear struck my heart, for I have invaded.
Her sacred home I have desecrated.
The sun slowly waned, as we sat eyes locked.
I dare not move; all exits were blocked.
She turned her head and watched the sun set,
And suddenly her presence was no longer a threat.
The fear slowly recessed,
As we both took in the beauty of the west.
For just like me,
She only needed company.
Apr 27, 2014
Apr 27, 2014 at 7:40 PM UTC
The kindest evidence the savior passed was the marks he bestowed in the most gentile articulation in this
His wise choices matched imperfection to our needs. One of the most telling attributes of women can be
Her hands but what if they are slightly marred the grace only flows to a deeper level quickness is
Replaced by deliberate action slower more thoughtful and profound a touch placed with this kind of
Feeling goes to a measure instantly felt it is not just the ordinary but a thing of force that unravels
Trouble mysteriously it finds the hidden knots looses them allows love to flow wide and full. Perhaps a
Man no longer strides with a power that has an assurance maybe he is depended on a stick for support
Where power is diffused it only changes channels it makes the heart stronger the eyes feel it too
Humanity in others is recessed the blunder the self efficiency drains from boisterous streams into calm
Assessment a flow that harnesses possibility not vain bravado that can at times wound those who are
Weaker and that are struggling. If times try men’s souls then imperfection can be a clarion call the
Placement of virtue at the lead where sometimes pride is the driving force this writing came from seeing
A woman walking in a sunny scene and she had a blotchy spot on her arm others could observe this and
Be to one degree or another repulsed but to the man who loves her it is a special calling card it
Touches makes the forces revel in a display that sets her apart from all others an instrument of sound
That separates from the den isolates carries a marker that generates tenderness, esteem, and honor
Thou art the tune and sound of a masterful violin play nothing else in my presence nothing else will do
Your imperfections makes another whole don’t ever fret over your special make up it is the breath and
The visitation of the divine in the human form boldly brushed in the shadow perfected by sun light.
Oct 29, 2012
Oct 29, 2012 at 2:19 PM UTC
An avalanche.
Rocks coming stumbling towards me. The warmth of lava makes me perspire but when I run fast, progress is recessed.
Languish buries my feet from underneath. My only supplies are useless... the desire to leave my heavy knapsack is relentless. The rush for survival going on, you think it would be first to dispose... but I am latched onto materialism
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 5:19 PM UTC
.
My label was showing,
flipping out from behind the collar
of my non-U.S.A. made shirt
Sri Lanka I think,
but I can’t see the back of my neck from here
Perhaps that is why they stare or
maybe it is why they don’t?
Well, that's okay, I’m new here,
first time on this floor
(I pushed the wrong elevator button)
Fancy suits and low cut gowns,
hors d'oeuvres, champagne, noses held high,
some are long ones to look down or up at
“Bat in the cave! Oh, did I say that out loud?
Sorry lady, no I wouldn’t like any avocado"
Whispers, murmurs or just low talking,
there must be a hundred of them
I thread myself through the crowd
making my way to the podium where I speak,
“Hello I am a poet and I’d like to read you something”
A strong gust of wind races against my face,
not air from any open window,
but the breeze created by their mass exodus
as they head for the outdoor terrace
for a smoke or to spit on those below them
Then I saw her, standing in the middle of the room
all alone, staring up at me
Deep brown eyes, dark glistening hair
and a smile that out-beamed the overhead recessed light
“I’d like to hear your poem,” she said in a euphoric voice
I gazed upon her mesmerized, feeling my throat tighten,
sweat appeared on my forehead as I lifted
a slip of paper from my back pocket
I looked it over and looked over at her…again
Then, taking a deep breath muttered,
“I must apologize, for it has become obvious to me
there is no more beautiful poem than the one
standing before me at this very time
To read these words which I have penned
would only pale to this I find”
“Thank you, that is very sweet of you,
would you like to go for a walk in the park?
I’d much rather be outside than inside
and maybe you can read me some
of your wonderful poetry there?”
“I’d love to, but what about them?”
I asked motioning toward the crowd on the terrace
She picked up the tray of sliced avocado, some champagne
and slipped them out the door, then giggled,
“Those insiders will be just fine outside for a while”
As we headed down on the elevator
she leaned up and kissed me
and it was at that very moment, as my heart
was nearly beating out on my chest I knew,
(I had pushed the correct elevator button)
Jul 20, 2016
Jul 20, 2016 at 6:48 PM UTC
and sometimes I wonder;
maybe if i looked like her
he would love me
but them I remember the painful stab of his words
and keep them close to my heart, forever unchanging, to keep me from changing
because maybe he'll settle again.
maybe he'll come crawling back and enfold me in the dark recessed of his mind
with whispered i love you's
that you tuck away into the crevases of your open mouthed soul
but then,
I remember him saying **** you.
that he meant it. that he really, really meant it.
and then him walking off
trailing behind him the wrappings of me
as if i was some excess piece of lust, he just brushed me off
and never
ever
did he look back again
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 10:54 PM UTC
it rained the day after Christmas and
you said you’d prefer snow.
it reminded me of London
so I kept my mouth shut and pushed your hands
further between my legs.
“eat my pineapple,” I instructed
as the *** coated my tongue.
“carry me through
the tiki bar and do pushups in the empty
space while I brush my lips on your temple.”
we were married on the corner
of Queen and Dunn;
our officiant on one knee, clad in blue knit
I
never thought I’d be here.
across oceans you recessed
further into my insomniac brain.
your eyes are green, right?
turn around:
it’s less romantic if there’s no eye contact.
track our distance across my sternum --
I’ve never been to Azerbaijan.
I took advantage of the fact that you were wearing black
and forgot to outline my
shape in chalk.
Jan 3, 2016
Jan 3, 2016 at 11:21 PM UTC
Standing on the precipice of an abyss
Blues and greens swirl and fade to black
Plummeting depths swallow and compress
In the distance an isolated pillar
Coated against the extremities
Stone faced and granite
Statuesque and alone –
Beneath lies the seething current
Life’s blood flows
Ebbing with the moon
Tidal and subject
Whims the only direction
With eruption as the single verifiable outcome
Only cold winds blow there now –
Aching for lost relations
Scattered family covering the west
Each with deep memories
Recessed and withdrawn
Vast cavernous systems
Delve into the very foundations
Broken dreams of reunion
Erode in the harsh and unforgiving weather –
Jan 20, 2016
Jan 20, 2016 at 4:45 PM UTC
Caught in your thicket of embellished verse
Trite but resolute
Efforts to crack the indestructible
Here you say:
Willowy white Lily-of-the-Valley
Softly flowing waves of ecstasy
Delights a recessed heart
And resurrects the willful soul
I say:
No one knows the heart of one
Cast onward towards the billowy grey
Destined to revive
My vain attempts at life
Jul 13, 2014
Jul 13, 2014 at 8:10 AM 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
The air is ****** up: it is a flower’s fault
a peony weeping and recessed
its creases looking like an elderly face –
I play dead, pretend to be aged than earth.
You count my rings as pine trees’
but I have few, if you’ll notice. You do.
I would say your name if the oxygen was
not stolen away: instead, I tongue at
my teeth and breathe breathe breathe in
secret hoping the garden won’t reveal me.
A fairylike, but natural room I am in –
feel its rotten sap still giving sticky hands.
Mar 10, 2013
Mar 10, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
I work at night.
My eyes lighted by the merest glimmers
from dark recessed memory.
There I can caress my thoughts;
warming them within cupped palms
pressed against the temples, as in prayer.
My church, however, left me long ago,
refusing to believe in me.
The feeling was mutual.
Jun 24, 2010
Jun 24, 2010 at 2:49 PM UTC
we are always on our way
we beat our chests,
broken clocks, we are honest twice a day.
our groundhogs overstay
in cuckoo nests
we are always on our way
in metric evenings led astray,
most of us have been recessed,
broken clocks, we are honest twice a day.
we are made to coil halfway,
beat those who love us best
we are always on our way.
we make time prepaid
and tendons compressed,
broken clocks, we are honest twice a day
we say
we are guests
we are always on our way
broken clocks, we are honest twice a day.
Apr 18, 2013
Apr 18, 2013 at 6:03 PM UTC
what are we doing here?
who are we?
could it be mere animals of evolution,
or something more?
consciousness,
thought simply resultant biomechanics
instinct propelling us forward on
rails laid by the genetic makeup of mankind
common sense or even decency
impossible to intercede impossible to
pry wheel of raging cart from track
dominance destruction greed consumption
a white knuckle ride
maniac grin adorning psychotic visage
speed bumps people, morals and expression
all for the powerful's possession
riding the narrow rails of instinct's destiny
until
wall struck impossible to penetrate
regardless weight of gold and accumulation
from society's centre outward the world to explode
choking to death on our own exhalation
drowning in the sea of our own consumption
the absence of empty filling this suit
hope that there might be another way
another path or at least reason
a hand better suited the lost to guide
to veer us from this path—
this societal suicide
a means to explain inner inclination
my inside bigger than the outside
spirit locked within a jar
a vessel
contained dimension not fitting this dimension
ethereal hands pressing against its walls
screaming internal
I want out
freedom home
though the path to which
the unknown
terrifying to the core
this longing
to be somewhere, but
knowing I shouldn't be in a hurry to go
spoken not by word but emotion
I would not tempt with trick of parlour
too insignificant to make demand
in bed, eyes closed
feeling connection to foreign land
speaking inside my mind
not alone in the dark
yet there lay no one next me
is that you,
scratching at the wall of recessed psyche?
behind, hiding passage to infinite knowledge
awareness obscured from consciousness' sight
for a time
for my existence as a man
until the end
until those final frightful moments
then
when hope and terror stand as equals opposing
might I finally realize spirit's truth,
or cease altogether—never to know
Nov 17, 2014
Nov 17, 2014 at 9:13 PM UTC
I saw you walk to me, across
the Place Bellecour, and I smiled.
The shuttered windows
and my unshuttered expression
told you that it wasn’t the time for this,
but the recessed windows on the grey roofs
and the off-white brick told me it was.
I saw you walk to me, across
the Place Bellecour, and I smiled.
The spires of the distant churches
and the unbroken line of sight
called to you that we better hurry on,
but the lines of windows (like members of an audience)
shouted at me to kiss you.
I saw you walk to me, across
the Place Bellecour, and I smiled.
A deep blue surreal sky and the
whisper of a floating white cloud
shouted to you to say yes,
and the white cloud of up and above
cheered me on, evermore,
to Paris and to Lyon.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 7:44 PM UTC
darkened eyes
read
Illuminating
Words
absorb well woven
language
into deeply recessed
caverns
flashlight of knowledge
soothes a weary heart.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 12:55 PM UTC
A voice may open doors to corridors,
dusty and untraveled creaking floors
which lead to vast and unlit recessed rooms,
shut down tight, their vacancy assumed.
Should you have the curiosity
to follow, know you this: the voice will be
your unrelenting guide, compelling you
through portals from until now you withdrew.
The voice will still the recoil of your mind
and weave within your thoughts and intertwine
into a past and present tapestry
of dreams and fears spun with realities.
Colored with your rapture, tears you spill;
the cloth is yours, do with it what you will.
Mar 11, 2015
Mar 11, 2015 at 2:47 AM UTC