Your Sepulchre
There is a pulse— And what’s behind is no longer tangible.
Like That Light Morning
Never have I known how it feels to be in a place with so much fragility, that the invasive scent of whatever porridge they decide to serve every morning is what it means to get saved another day.
Oil On Paper
"You can be what you desire," Doubt utters From your lips But its wicked mouth is that Of a different language
Make The Gray Pigeons Coo
When you face forgetful grief You should teach it not to Rain on you, And soak you in sorrow