poetry

The world turns grey when you mourn the time which has not yet come…

The thick, ash-filled air makes grey their clothes and hair, lying, restless until all does stop…

Maybe, sometimes, things are just best left…

Are my words a selfish decree?

I left for Mount Sinai when I felt the need to hide…

In deep country she finds her strength…

What is it about being bathed in moonlight?

The blade of the guillotine falls on us all, and we must depict it as art…

We know clouds are water vapor, but we’re still amazed they float…

Sitting on a porch seeing…

Change is knowing girlhood is a dream…

I’m envious of cats. Their simple life. Their ability to sleep and sunbathe all day…

I forget the sweet taste of clementines until my lips are wet with their juice…

It’s the trees that make me cry more than anything…

This evening there was a road crew in the streets of the colonial town…

She worships nihilism and thinks it makes her unique…

I only wake up scared–delirious and delusional–when my fangs are not bared and able to reflect the moon…