Poetry
The Fire
In the cooling air of the lingering dusk, the flames from the fire-pit clawed higher The steps to the wood-rack, heavy and slow, retrieving
In the cooling air of the lingering dusk, the flames from the fire-pit clawed higher The steps to the wood-rack, heavy and slow, retrieving
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Until you let go of what hurts you,
screaming won’t ease the pain.
The day stars new all is peaceful at sun up a fresh strong breath of tree’s The Christmas tree is filled with a thousand memories
The Walls We Build: “There is loneliness in this world so great that you can see it in the slow movement of the hands of
I’m skilled at bottling up my feelings but I’ll burst if you shake me. one pull at a loose thread and I come apart at