Feb 2017
the edges are stained blue
and no matter
that spring is holding out its hand
in a promise,
spring becomes summer,
summer fall,
and winter again,
and the hours and the hours and the hours
and cities rise
and forests fall
once, gods
are now falling into disrepair,
temples on the verge
of imploding.
and no matter
that spring is holding out its hand
in a promise,
spring becomes summer,
summer fall,
and winter again,
and the hours and the hours and the hours
and cities rise
and forests fall
once, gods
are now falling into disrepair,
temples on the verge
of imploding.
An old friend of mine is dying. He's on the other side of the country. I wish I could see him one more time. Money is nothing to some people, but everything to me.
