The Precipice & The Gully
Karma, sweet karma gives her nod.
Down the Gully my sweet love.
Follow me they cannot.
Chronic Hibernation
How I ache for Summer’s Wake in my chronic hibernation. The fire’s warmth of the modernized hearth; bring me the herbs that have laid dormant, dig them holes, let them birth.
Blood, Not of My Blood
Through the discourse of my past and cauterizing old wounds, I am birthing a new future into motion. I’ve felt it in my bones for longer than I have verbalized that I have known.