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While on the go, I sometimes jot these small visions down. Some of them are actual, which might mean I’m going slightly mad. Oh well.

12:12 pm

It hobbles in, little sunflower,

amidst peeling paint.

Where have my hands gone, it asks,

my voice? But I can hear

words– fibers circle my ears,

petal-hands push me out of bed.

5:20 pm

when she said joy, she meant

thistles and grit; hopeless

against pain, still, the clearing

wades through; joy remains

though we bicker our dividends, hurt.

6:14 pm

She goes to her room, sunk

in shutters and ache, to lay

beside the lamps of Your words, to hum

sadness in strings, restore

Your eyes, let dark beauty be.


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