Full of life
Silent things are not for conquering
The chapter on burning and touching
Sense is the seeing, believing, the touching, tasting, the being
Becoming every colour can leave us gray, when the lights go down
Are these clothes the colour of my insides? Are yours?
The lavender whispers That relief is long overdue, And listens to the fears that fester in my fingertips Illuminating, In their ill disposition, A denial of the dreams that sit within the willow trees. Tickled by the sorrow, only, Of our weeping limbs, The plant supposes All of us that make sights with pens Will […]