And while they’re erasing our future they try but cannot succeed at erasing our past- When the soil where you sign your decrees was plowed
There are books I’ve meant to read when the lights are on the low that escape the dead and gone and the hurt that’s hard
Dear Celine, I received a text a while ago which I believe was a plea from a lover, I trust you know who, and I
I see here now, standing in the midst of birch and gravelled roads a field of war; a battle lost fought long before my time.
I stand here, a hall where ancient passions lay long-dead, and buried under stones stacked high with skill, that proudly show their age as if
Many things end Meaningfully I bloom Many feet run I follow them Graffiti came and washed away the mess of birth I carved a pumpkin
I find delight in the subtle things, The sound of the rain, Poetry, Bamboo flutes and healing ragas, Hour-long baths and Korean Dramas.
At times you may feel weak, Exhausted, Broken. Though as the days go by, You shall see, How your mind is constantly dismantled, And put
In the Summer of ‘24, I was set upon by thoughts and feelings that beckoned to become words. Tales of anticipation, mundane tasks, aimless wandering,
My love, tell me why you will not speak of the dead brown children in Gaza tonight Do you, not mourn me As I wade
In the faraway nightscape, where the stars make funny shapes I somehow see you clearly, even on the cloudiest nights Eighty-eight constellations, and yours is
Warmth is folded away as unwilling prey,Wrapped in worn, fading memories,Swathed in subtropical musings.Warmth is stashed in a den by Orion’s bard,By the hunter that
we’re drinking strawberry flavoured wine out of red solo cups and I can’t help but notice the hair you move out of her face, she’s
Snow tires trudge through grey slush as headlights interrogate the blizzard that has murdered the warmth of the sun and my shadow melts through the
Below. I float forth, Aimlessly through the dark. Night is a cloak, night is indifferent, But you hide during the day. Where in the lights
I woke at midnight from a pleasant dream Where I was not myself in all but mind; When, grafted to a far more fruitful tree,
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