Category Archives: Uncategorized

St. Elmo’s Fire

I haven’t been able to tell you I can’t come. I will not be there and it creates within me a sense of paralysis. The paralysis of holding the hand of a lover who turns into a statue. I know the blackness and because of this I dread the night. I know there is starlight and moonlight, but why dream when those dreams will only burn out the sky? I can’t express to you the full sense of the depth of loss I feel and envision, for to do so would seem rather gloomy to you I imagine. I am too intuitive for my own good, and yet it is when I heed these flashes of fire that I am able to find a sense of sanity in the madness that is this roaring heart. I would have loved you like St Elmo’s fire otherwise. I would have created black soot of your heart and red coal of your body.



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Soulmates Freestyle

You were the bones and I was the flesh, our homes were like war zones I guess, that’s where we learned to be so inauthentic, lost my identity so I had to re- invent it. You told me they created a soldier with no feeling, that’s what you attested to being. When I was with you it never dawned on me, but being free was like some kind of anomaly, now that I’m free I can be who I wanna be. Now that I’m free I see I never truly have been anything other than caught in this sick slavery, which was masked by a fake survivor’s sort of bravery, I had to be a warrior to survive the threat that wounded me fatally, but all that changed in the face of reality when I met you and you met me and then you left me and the old me died by a strange sort of suicide, so that the new me could be born inside. Like soulmates we were meant to meet, that’s how you found me, but the truth is I just never had any boundaries, they were broken down in my childhood where I learned it was good to obey, where I learned to give my soul away.



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While the Queen screamed off with her head and the king shouted out with her heart , she had only her body left to inhabit against the cold scrutiny of sharp eyes who sought to shame her passion and tame her desire. Then when they buried her bones under ancient stones she transcended into a bird spirit and flew out from discarded shells, incubating a new dawn. But they spoke no bird in the herd and her song fell mute like a broken flute from a sad Kokopelli. The seasons of time rushed on until at last she migrated out of the world of the visible. Rattled heart, shattered soul, crushed pulse of freedom. Outside the prison, beyond the reach of sanctuary lies true liberation , but alas it is illusion, so she deconstructs slivers of light around her. Some say she can be seen at times when moon or sun eclipse. She can still be heard in the sad roar of rivers over rocks in cedar groves. She sings for those that have heart to hear, body to dance, and mind to imagine.

C. Barthelette (2015)

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Starry Night

When you were a child, you were laughing in the garden.. you carried this incessant joy to your mother, only to be met with a blank & empty gaze, this is when your heart broke, and from that day you went searching for that smile in others, but it always fades, and when it fades, your sense of devastation is incomprehensible, you feel this soul scorn, so you leave your love alone in the garden with a blank and empty gaze. You see this world as a cold & empty place, and you think all the ones you meet must hide this secret hostility, but in truth, it is a projection of your own inner rage, the sort that has you seeing forbidden images of death, these destructive visions, which seem to arise out of nowhere and leave you with the thought that if others could read your mind, they would run away from you. On the surface you carry this smile, but within you a murder takes place, it is your true self dying, the one who died as a child, while searching for the light through the darkness, a small glimmer of hope out there in the night sky, a starry night in the eyes of the universe.


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Narcissi & Echo

Staring in the water, I find a flower, white petals surrounding a yellow bud, this is the immortal flower of my Narcissus, the adored one who died of starvation while transfixed by his own reflection . He has been resurrected as a gentle flower and his beauty floods the forest. My hand reaches out with longing, but the voice of an ancient sage echoes back, “if you love a flower do not pick it up, because if you pick it up it dies and ceases to be what you love, love is not about possession, it’s about appreciation.” All my life I longed for you to hear me, my voice could not exist without your words, when I approached the pond, my heart fell into it’s murky depths, sank to the bottom and remains there now, unable to love without your deep voice echoing back to me. Now you return as this beautiful flower Narcissi, existing only in silence. So shall I become mute and dumbfounded by your brilliance. Your thoughts will be but a whisper on the wind, haunting my dreams for eternity.

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Filed under Flowers, Freedom, myth, Narcissism, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Narcissus & Echo

The sobs of Narcissus are buried in my chest like an endless blackness, the dark shadow which he never can capture as he lays enraptured by his gaze. I feel his heart on my heart as his flawless body rests on top of me, spent from the endless pursuit of penetration. He enters me, yet nothing ever enters him, in that sense he remains virginal, searching the lonely sea within me for his own reflection. His perfection is like an unbreakable glass mirror, where I remain shattered. I don’t want him to see how much I need him, how deeply enamoured I am by his every movement, and equally by his stillness when his eyes gaze off in the distance, unable to focus on any one person for too long. He blinks and the butterflies flutter. He cannot tell a single truth, for he knows not his true self, a God-like being annihilated in infancy. I want him to know that I will not leave him, even after he abandons me. I want him to find his true vision like an infinite mark of hope tattooed on his soul. I want him to know he is more than this body which forsakes him in his time of need, oh Narcissus, hear my eternal echo, see how I keep myself afloat when you drown in the massive ocean of these other worldly expectations. Can’t you see my ability to die and resurrect myself in spite of your fatal envy? You will hate inexplicably of this I am certain, and yet your hate is only an illusion of your real identity, which got lost in it’s own reflection, and never given the chance at self- expression, never given wings to fly, the unhatched egg of potential, which burns with all the force and passion of an atomic bomb. I drown myself. I do this daily, every time your voice becomes more distant, and yet I resurface again alone in the silence where our world’s lie forever separated.


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Filed under Identity, Illusion, Mental Health, Mental Illness, Mortality, myth, Narcissism, Poem, poetry, Trauma, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Smile When I’m Gone

Tonight you send a bird
you send a dead bird
it falls from your hands
your mouth
those dusty edges of fettered
and I smile at it,
because it is nothing.
Tonight I consider ways
to be that bird.
I know they will wonder why I
say sorry to those who cared,
I was not one of them.
I couldn’t be any,
but this featherless



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Dancing on Line 2

“Your version of happiness makes me sad.”
sad the ballerina
as she pirouetted
through the gap
of the metro,
into the oncoming train.

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A House in My Arm

They built a basement in my olecranon fossa,
took out a mortgage on my elbow..
these osteocytes are working overtime
for the corporations,
blasting bones to keep the banks full.
This needle is where my entire
foundation was built.
I got engaged that day you wrapped your
warm soft body around mine,
couldn’t imagine a better feeling than this.
I bought you a ring made of pure gold and shimmering
with diamonds, grown
in a dark cave,
which a slave picked
in your name.
I became so big,
watched the neon skyline
while my name
lit every billboard in the city.
This all came
from a 30 gauge
shooting straight
into my arm,
it all went into my arm.
I carry my house, my wife,
all my dreams in this syringe,
it shoots freely through
the blue network
of misfired circuits,
and abandoned
I would have sold my only child.
I never held her,
she lives in my bicep,
the only untouched
wilderness on my body,
which I left clean for her.

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Filed under Addiction, Heroin, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

True Love (In Retrospect)

“Does true love even exist anymore?” The blue serpent slithered and hissed her entreat. It was a way to lure in the vulnerable, to deceive the dreamers. “True love is when you are willing to give your kidney away,” she’d say. In the morning when I woke I checked to make sure I still had all my life-sustaining organs intact. Kidney -check.. Liver-check… Heart… that was somewhat questionable. The answer I’d whisper alone in the cold dark of my room, when she was thousands of miles out of view was; yes it exists, but like God, it is irrelevant. I would have given you my kidney but you made me wish I’d never had such irrelevant organs.

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Hurts To See


Hurts to see, that’s what I call you, eyes that are more like wounds than eyes,
hurts to see the misery, when the sun burns like an injury to your soul.
It may rise in your country, but here, when I wake, I am cleansed by something pure, and when I find my vision is slanted looking in the mirror, it’s as if a knife incised my pupils, haphazardly, I splash water across my face and the ugly disfigurement is healed, but for you, it’s a genetic reality, and it really hurts to see. It hurts to see that creation can be so imperfect as to leave scars in place of beauty.


(for the girl with Asian eyes who tried to burn me.)
*an observation, and a metaphor.*

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When climbing high and getting too close to the edge, then being cautioned to be careful for fear of falling and breaking something, is followed by the thought that there’s nowhere left to fall and nothing left to break. When you are awake too late, always tempting fate. When the one you adore lives a very structured routine, and you think it’s obscene how people seem so capable of order. I cannot explain why I am a night bird, why when the whole world sleeps, is the time when I am most at peace. Why I come alive with the moon rise. I do not care for yoga, Pilates or vegan. I have no desire to go raw and drink my dinner through a straw. I won’t be found in a gym, on the treadmill of the world, trying to keep pace. I will be the one who fell from grace. When you mouth the words of a girl who brings you motivation and positive inspiration, by putting roses in quotations, I am the one who reminds you of the thorns.

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Filed under Humour, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing


Peering in the mirror, I see your reflection in me. It’s always the one who is closest who leaves her imprint on my soul. The name that was given to me at birth was apropos, clarity and light, reflecting through dark, the image of that which is cast upon her. Deep under earth where thirsty roots, like small beings , conscious of their need for the tree, hold deep this vein which replenishes jugular affection. I want your black hair with blue undertones, want the blue haze surrounding you in me, like a cloud of vapor, inhaled and exhaled. When you say I should be things, like the orgasmic thrust you feel in your ilium, this is what I embody. I want your skin as it deteriorates from lack of nutrients, to be my own canvas splotched red, and for my pulse to be your pulse as it leaves your wrists where the indents of my sharpest desire are worn as a bracelet, swollen on the surface, where the ancient ache escapes, to become rain for the desert between your thighs.

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Annihilation’s Bird

Each bird in its place, caged.
One is set free daily.
Extended arm like a runway for aviators.
The broken one sits there envious of the sky,
It will never abide by suicide.
Buddhist principles of non-violence
forbid it forgiveness.
Instead it commits a thousand
silent murders within,
any form of annihilation
afforded by the imagination,
to spurn the body.

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Battle Scars

America never belonged to their forefathers
It belonged to your fathers
and your father’s fathers.
Never forget that.
They drove a strong, proud, red nation
up into Canada,
where they cut off our tongues
and surgically removed our souls.
Red, white & blue
are part of you.
The blood which rushes
through your heart,
which they buried at wounded knee
could not be
without France, without Britain,
without the great red nation.
The enemy is in you,
and the warrior too.
Smearing paint over her cheeks,
she walks free
into the wild country,
bearing their battle
scars within her.

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Filed under Aboriginal, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized

The Other Her

You worship statues:
to Jesus,
whose towers fail
to keep erect
when Muslim fires threaten.

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10mgs of joy

The Prozac nation
stopped at Grand Central Station
and rode the main line to oblivion.
No one saw the rust on the tip
of the syringe
from a generation which burned
through the veins
like wildfire
in search of its own happiness.



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On a clear day,
they say you can see the mountains from Bucharest,
ice capped wonder of my heart
but whether clear or cloudy
your soul
peering into mine
at the hour
of immortality
makes demons

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Dream II

I dreamt that we were not in this world.
Your mother, your father, and your grandmother
welcomed me like family;
recognized me
for the swell
in the organ
aortic arch
rose high
as the Carpathians.

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Filed under Love, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

I am America

All the honest ones on the bottom rung,
hunger without a green clue about how to grow food.
Yet our ancestors had the heirlooms, which would later
be bought by corporate leaders to make
toxic morsels, without real sustenance.

They would see dollar signs in the leaves of the trees,
ignoring the animal need in the seed we
received when we breathed our first
naked breath here, when we were taught to
respect here, this wilderness,
and the corrupt ones with their
pockets lined with lies,
grew rich off our trustworthiness,
or took it, with force, when we
were powerless to defend against them.

We watched what was once fecund,
become what is now a wasteland.
An ashy womb of indifference,
too poisonous to bear fruit.
We said mother earth must have
closed her legs and refused,
and yet they pried and forced
a millennia of greed a thousand feet deep,
so that the scope of it,
could be seen to permeate
every sector, from produce,
to health care, to political
sway, still she lay there
unresponsive to their touch.

It’s like I am America
and you are Europe,
like you rush towards me
with bloody hands,
fresh from raping your
own land, and you come here
hungry, looking to build a
new empire, from the ruinous
resin of your burned down world.
Like I have only an arrow to defend myself
against your lead battalion.

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Filed under Ancestors, Ancestral, Anishinaabe, Broken, Buffalo, Canada, Canadian, Earth, Enslaved, Environment, First Nations, Freedom, Hypocrisy, Idle No More, Indigenous, Modern Slavery, Past, Pipe Lines, Political, Pollution, Rape, Traditions, Tragedy, Trauma, travel, Truth, Uncategorized, writing

Superficial Images of Harmony

In line for photo day, mother smothers

Covergirl and others to conceal what is real.

On each face there is a veil of joy, disguising true emotion.

A family of 5, but only 4 legitimates in the picture,

the other is the ghost of a girl, appearing as a halo of light,

which gives the finished image, a burned appearance,

where truth singes.


In front of others, this feigned affection & attention

is heaped like toxic sugar into the cups of company.

When the guests depart, the smile turns to tight lips

and searing eyes, “you are the reason we fight,

you are the cause of our misery, your very

existence was an accident.”


I think of how beautiful an accident can be,

crushed bones on concrete, from a 10 story fall,

but I decide instead on living and smiling just to spite them.

Smile, no one cares how you feel, smile to conceal what is real.

Keeping up appearances is what garners true admiration,

look at her, so together, meanwhile the thread on her sweater

tied to truth, is so easily unraveled, like a wound,

they hoped to keep hidden by a tattoo symbolizing


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Filed under Abuse, Past, Poem, poetry, Suicide, travel, Uncategorized, writing

The Call To Serve

Eccentric hoarder in dilapidated mansion


gives me advice on survival.

Says I stand at a new plateau,

in her time what was known as controversial

was abortion.

In my time, assisted suicide.

holds up her hands in the shape of a triangle,

epic symbol,

for the fundamentals

encapsulating our scope of practice,

like an exoskeletal prism.

You think naively thus?


The doctor only writes the


the nurse follows it.

Thus, the needle,

through the administered I.V,

of a prescribed O.D.


Sudden flashback, lacking LSD,

I see myself in recovery,

my first gold pendant, symbolizing one year

of sobriety, with the ever familiar

polygon, encased in a circle

representing wholeness,

teaching us to give back in service,

but my question has always been


who am I serving?

In this case the vulture

in the syringe.

As I turn to leave, she looks

me firmly in the eye,

through the blur

of her cataract,

says she admires my calmness,

something she never had,

instead she screeched her way out of


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Filed under Nursing, poetry, Suicide, travel, Uncategorized, writing


When the bird of voice breaks a wing, the words we wish to speak fail to take flight, dissolving in the larynx and pharynx of a hemorrhaging heart. Then you say little girl who resides out of utero should at certain time, when seasons pass, find her wings mended, for when we reach the age of cleavage, only then is our plumage ever seen, and our song ever heard. Then beyond altered colour, should the woman stand erect, tearing the guise of her girlhood into fine pieces, like a costume that was never in vogue. Then what was known of her fertile heart, should become a shortcoming rather than an asset, like when you are told you feel too deeply what others prefer to numb, so you tear at the root where decay sets in, where silence takes precedence over imagination, and stoicism and formality become the wrinkled suit and necktie noose of professional proportions.

Here in the breaking, let me feel the bone, let blood erupt, and silence like a hammer shatter me, into speechless pieces, like my love, like my hurt where all joy is born, in the silencing of a heart that breaks irrevocably. Whether you give too much or you take too much, it’s one in the same, it’s a flooding, before emergence, before the natural progression of true intention, which paves way for regret. Better to be silent, to withhold feeling, movement, sound, and being. To become the earth around two tectonic plates, that lies still before the break. For we know the aftershock is inevitable.

The painting dissolves; figure of a woman, her hands seem foreign, her mouth lacks warmth, her arms lacerate your skin with every embrace. What was love becomes more like a bee sting to one who is hypersensitive.

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In vivo veritas

[In vitro:]

Crystal violet sky where the sun sometimes rises,

shining light on these molecular emotions,

magnified objectively in a laboratory.

[In vivo:]

The microscope shatters,

obliterating field of view,

blurring my subjective vision of you.

In life, there is truth,

in glass, distortion.

In wine,


Drink the sky, shatter the glass,

stare opaquely


these negative particles,


in Methylene blue;

these warm drops

of humoral immunity

& emotional sterility

fall blankly,


singeing the stitches,

which hold the

child together

inside me,

a severed



into the future.


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I got the results of my x-ray back today,

there are roses growing in me,

and it seems they can never die,

they found butterflies on the thorns

where they made cocoons,

only our lovemaking can heal these wounds.



There are roses growing in you;

I will always remember that August morning when you told me that there were roses growing in you.

Since that day, when they need light, I give them the sparkle of my eyes transformed into sunlight.

When they are thirsty, I empty my body of blood and I become their dew.

When they feel lonely, I serenade them under the full moon

When they are hungry, I offer them my tenderness,

and I cut my arms so they can keep my caresses.

Today, I have a secret to reveal to you; there are roses growing in me too.

Only my roses can live in your garden and yours are always welcome in mine,

but never offer roses to a stranger and never accept roses from someone else’s garden,

because the pain in my soul will provoke thorns to tear my skin off

and a rain of petals will cover my empty & naked body

that lies lost on a pyramid of thorns amid a sea of blood.


Written by Crystal Kinistino & Mada Rose


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Filed under Beauty, Bleed, Bondage, Confessional, Dark Romanticism, Dedication, Love, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Hemlock (Truth#1)

I found in you, ephemeral but indelible, this bruise
purple as a twilight sky before the thunder,
where black around the eyes, as charcoal,
accompanying a crimson smear,
your cheek was stained by the memory of my presence.

Each day I arrived to see you sleeping,
bandaged, scarred, and profane, the words
never came, the sentences were anesthetized.

Your disdain grew like a tumour.
Inside needless cells,
carrying comets towards

The first truth was as bitter
as hemlock in the trial of Socrates.

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Endless Maze

Knowing you is continuing to do pirouettes with two broken legs without feeling the pain and even after the music has stopped; it’s flying in circles with no purpose, with the fall leaves and not feeling nauseous, lost or dizzy; it’s starting a new painting every day, using the same colors, drawing your portrait for the millionth time and still being amazed by this original work of art.

Loving you makes me feel like an innocent, pure, dreaming child, like a cherry blossom bud that already spreads such a deep and unique perfume, like a newborn butterfly that uses its last strength and broken wings to knock on heaven’s door.

You said to me that being with me is like walking through an endless maze every day. I will reply to you that discovering you is like traveling from the sky to earth disguised as a snowflake, falling slowly without being afraid to melt because if I melt you will melt with me and we will be just one, one happy little drop full of desire, peace and love, forever frozen on the stairs of paradise.

written by my love, Mada Rose


Filed under Dedication, Love, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing


​How another soul slips out from the cocoon, and blooms into a fleshy body of brilliance. We know the butterfly won’t linger always, perhaps this is what makes her beauty so sweet, is that she comes in full glory, with variance of colour and softness, sweetness and ecstacy, beyond what any constellation can inspire. You have waited a lifetime to touch her, and then she flutters away as suddenly as she arrived, leaving with you a feeling of completeness, fullness which satiates what seemed to be an eternity of hunger.You think she must have always been there in a state of metamorphosis, waiting for you to catch her, and you sigh a deep sigh of relief, which feels akin to flying.The ache inside you where she lives, where she grew into what she is.

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the ghosts of the one’s who were wanted

You see all the things I am, see this radiant image glowing, I want to burn my wings slowly in the sun, become earthbound, trip over a stone and fall in the water, cut myself on my own reflection, I want these silver scars, don’t want to tell you how the shine of them, carried me through the darkest moments, but you came to me in a dream, so it seems we were fated to believe the unimaginable. You don’t want to see me sad, like it’s your new occupation to make me smile. You say I should sleep, should eat well, should care about myself. I feel I want to, I know these are words of kindness, not like before, not leashes, or latches fastened. If ever I wanted a leash, it would be a way to the moon again, before I burned out the belief of so many good days, days when the potential was in me. I would take it, take that gasoline, take back the pleural inhalation. Evoke a strength, envision a way to unlatch the fingers which interlocked, the one’s that made time stop. The smash of a glass, the way human’s hands can become as savage as beasts, tiger claws, and poison eyes, snake venom love, the kind that dissolves you, and leaves you paralyzed. I have smoked the biggest crystal, lit it up, watched the ghosts of the one’s who were wanted, hurting to be touched, unable to even sense it.


Filed under Confessional, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

the way the sun betrays

5a.m broken inner clock, the way time stops you dead in the night, and feeds you the light of the morning, but it’s a force feeding session, and in your deepest depression, you lost your appetite. Hurting yourself was a way to control the pain. I understand that. I did that too. It’s like being immortal, only to be told you will die. You think it’s a lie, they all must lie. When the one’s who were meant to protect you have all hurt you, you lose the desire to be protected. Someone comes along and says they love you as much as a flower in fall, that forgot that summer ended, that kept growing in spite of the cold. They tell you they will always protect you, and you think of the way chlorophyll fades, the way the sun betrays.


Filed under Confessional, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing


I need to hold you, need to be held, then you empty out like a dark cloud, and the sky is always falling on our dreams. It’s falling on our dreams, as it bleeds into the streets, crowds with surgical vision, cut an incision between us. I can’t feel anything, must be the anesthetic, maybe I am pathetic for wanting, for needing anything, but it isn’t that, it’s the way your arm is held back in the past, by someone who fed your need to be conquered. Now you’re like Everest, climbed and forgotten, a peak, a climax, that lasts only in photographs, long ago burned.

This poem should have ended where it began…

“I need to hold you.”


Filed under Confessional, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

song of the stars

Veins of earth roots swallow the ache of this buried heart, which never tires of thirsting. Like a small starfish, it rises up, with a thousand different arms, waiting to hold you. If I lose the feeling of your delicate body to the vagaries of time and space, I will erase who I am, and come to you, newly gilded, pick thorns from the places where I wandered without you, name each wound and scar, as the time before I discovered immortality, catch you in my fingers, my mouth, my hair, taste the salt of your loneliness as my own, and when the song of the stars, a magical music made for dreamers, illuminates the earth with the light of a butterfly’s beauty, I will watch her wings form, and ride on the dawn of a night owl, carrying hope like a crystal toward the pupil of your infinite eyes.

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Filed under Music, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

the ticket soulward

Blackbirds line the plexiglass of the perimeter down Attikus, a bounding pulse, riding through my chest, like an untamed mare, striving for ventricular leap; the streets lie empty as a wrist at the end of a long kiss, and leave me like this και πάλι ένα μαύρο πουλί, landing in the black night, among the cypress trees, calling, swooping, downward, toward the slopes of green, leading to Kiffisia, where the splendor of radiant seasons, throbs like a thousand hearts under one temple, ready to open, ready to thrust away the grey of winter, replace with this, your soft hand, virgin of labor, likened to the flush of sunset that covers the sky in a shy smile, forges the earth to be still, while the cataclysm in my body, swallowed by the Aegean, washes up through the years in the water garden, where her gaze, the gaze of heaven, her lips, forming constellations, which surpass the beauty of a thousand stars when she smiles, her eyes, a deep reflection which sees beyond my waking vision, path of petals, sweet and vernal, where she counts in anxious expectation the moment of our merging, merging beyond blood, beyond time, where trains pass like veins, towards the heart of eternity, you did not board, you did not purchase the ticket soulward, and I thank you for this, in a murmured Latin tongue, which you reject like love.


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The burned out house we inhabit

In the vacant house,

charred wainscot

a flash of memory

captured as a photograph,

where I come to greet her in the foyer,

she keeps that smile,

until my hand reaches to caress,

her face as wax melts,

her smile drips

over the windowpane,

forming stalagmites,

blistered fingers, burned out heart,

her hand emerges from the


“holding my cindery, non-existent,
radiant flesh. Incandescent.”

in absence of identity,

personal keepsakes,

years of collecting ourselves,

kept in boxes, or

displayed on shelves,

soot where our souls once burned

with the vigor of starlight,

caught between rocks,

we push together,

one breath, hot enough to burn

the braid of us,

the knot tied from

infancy to


somewhere, on the chart

of our development,

we failed our goals;

trust was replaced with mistrust,

autonomy with doubt,

identity with confusion,

intimacy with isolation,

and productivity with stagnation.

We were left with these bodies,

whose faces are as familiar as strangers,

jagged teeth, fading ivory,

loss of skin’s elasticity,

hollowed eyes,

lacking glimmer & glitter,

we decorate our souls,

when we can no longer attend the

celebration of who we are,

but as we fade far,

know that the soul never forgets

it’s purpose,

we came born with a song

and a reason to sing it,

who among us can content herself

with a furled feather,

clutching a long sleep,

if we never care to dream

or awaken?

My wishes blown out,

one final sparkler

lights up the dark room

like a fiery organ,

I multiply each breath,

resuscitating this smothered heart.

Little girls again, we run together,

past rolling brooks, leading to

the water’s edge,

here we walk back,

retracing ashen steps,

I pour lava into the places

where we failed to grow,

forming from ebony pitch,

a shiny onyx tear,

we walk the path of tears,

and reach the ocean

of our separation,

in hope of growth,

tossing these in the salt water

and brine of

rejected kisses,

cold arms,

stern faces,

meter sticks,




broken hearts,

we come back none the better,

none the wiser,

the same fleck of


same dark sense of loss,

covers the forest in moss.


But I love her,

as I love the

earliest memories

I have,

the ones where hope

thrived in small

corners and

tables were set,

by our imagination,

with no real food,

no real sustenance,

nothing to nourish us,

no hydration,

but the one seed


was enough to

assuage our thirst,

to restore

the air again,

to allow for flight,

and we rose without thought

or fear of falling.


Filed under Dedication, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Smiles like Sunscreen

So what if we did away with persona?

What if we shed our lambskin for wolfish fur, and a set

of fangs, bearing sharp our desire for blood, deep meaty flesh,

bones, calcium, and enamel?

What if she said “I want you on my mantle,”

a porcelain doll, where you sit collecting dust,

until she decides to brush you off and make you useful?

What if every day she stared in your eyes, and replaced those

sweet lies with a bitter, unpalatable truth?


What if she was cold and uncouth and her words caused

you to shatter, but she just stood in laughter,

mocking your eye as it rolled across the parquet floor,

and when she was done breaking you into pieces,

she put you back together again, buttoned you up,

told you to mind you don’t catch a cold,

kissed you warmly on the cheek, and then stopped speaking

to you again.


In her you might see the softened blush of redolence,

moments of passion, intermingled with tenderness,

only to end in incomprehensible violence.

But, what if, by meeting we didn’t mind the first impression,

and the pink clouds of infatuation were replaced by grey,

ominous nebula?

What if she said, “I take an enema because I am so

tense and backed up, that my body refuses to expel

it’s own toxic waste?”

What if she said, ‘I can’t let go, I never climax, because

I need to stay in control?”

What if she told you “don’t speak,

don’t move, don’t touch anything, stay very still, like unseen

particles, because I need for you to cease existing at the hour

when my anxiety is most high, which is at night, when

I think I might die?”


If she sat with you over coffee and told you of every

thing imperfect about her, of all her shortcomings,

and solidified reasons for being alone,

then what if she took you home,

and you knew that she wouldn’t touch you,

wouldn’t want you near her, couldn’t bear

the sound of your breath beside her in the bed,

what if she told you these things instead of

pretending to be kind, sweet, compassionate,

the one?


What if the sun came with a warning label?

“Might cause cancer, but may also cause flowers to bloom.”

Would we still want to wake up to the daylight?

But we would and we do, we slather ourselves

in u.v protecting cream and admire the beams

as they cut across our field of dreams,

because truth is, we’d rather have flowers

than tumours, so we ignore the signs,

failing kidneys, inability to breathe,

inability to grieve, due to the painted on smiles

we wear like sunscreen.


Filed under Cancer, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Repressed, travel, Uncategorized, writing

The Resurrection

I need time, time to know you, because time is sacred, sacred as the sun which shines behind you through the window, lighting up your dark eyes, so that the retina of all my need is fulfilled through your smile. I study the release of hormones, in the endocrine system, to their receptor sites, and think of how the grey matter of a spinal section from the thoracolumbar region, causes my heart to race, my pupils to dilate, my breath to quicken through the synapse of cholinergic to adrenergic cells, and how this release is then tempered parasympathetically, a collaboration of body systems combine, to bring me a sense of attraction, a chemical stimulation, and then the sudden release of oxytocin, when you say you wish to hold me, say you wish to hold me, though you may not say these words so precisely, and a calm sense of the world being right, for the first time in forever, makes me believe that hope is not wasted, on two uncaged birds, who have all the sky as their own, to fly wing to wing, then tell me this silence was nothing, it was only a small abyss, meant to be crossed, on our way to each other, and I will take the ache of past hurts, past trauma, and make the music a bird longs to sing, deep within myself, my own crushed cadence will be synchronous with beauty, with laughter, and the forgetting of pain. In a place so rare and mystical, an innocent space, where we meet, reaching joy and discovery, timeless and eternal, like a magnolia tree, or my desire to make you blossom, incarnate, reincarnate, bud, bud off, spindle fiber, leaf, vein, cyclic season, protein chain, long, complex, regeneration, cell death, recovery, nourishment, deep and enduring, oblivious of clock and counter, moon rise, sun set, encounter with God, a new religion, a ritual in time of repetition, a broken pattern, a bad habit dying, a new cycle being born. Goddess and Gaia, wolf and messiah, blood, blood orange, the way she drank slowly in the midday heat, and when I spoke her mind was far away, so far away, a grove of new oranges grew in place of the empty cup she held, and when that colourful bird peered from it’s nest, I remarked, how exotic it was, no place on earth should be worthy of a bird with such colour! The green, aquamarine, crystalline water, was as clear and lucid as the dream as it lay dying, while we walked together through emptiness, footprints in sand, lateral was my hand to hers, I should have seen, it was not your hand, your smile, your dimple of elation in the bleakest moments of longing, that made me want to die and come back to life again, a new person, a free person, without the anchor of the Aegean. Cycle, rhythm, zodiac, cyclic, Cycladic, but her heart was Ionian, deep and cold, as the coldest sea in the world, and when Neruda said he wanted to do with you what the spring did to the cherry blossoms, it was my thought he echoed, decades ago, when you were being born for the first time, in an immortal country, where loneliness ate through hunger, and I as a small child, walked along the Pacific coast, contemplating regrowth, through the arms of starfish.


Filed under Adventure, Alone, Beauty, Bird, Birth, creative, Dedication, Distance, dreams, Eternity, Greece, Greek, Grief, Immortal, Infatuation, inspirational, Journey, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Medical, Memory, Past, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Science, Seasons, Silence, Soul, Time, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Flowers Wilt on the Fringe of the Crowd

Pick me for the dance, this is your last chance, soon the music dies.

A bouquet is thrown toward a roaring crowd of lonely people,

I am you, the other half of a twilight sky,

the part where the sun goes to cry.

Out on the fringe, where time gets singed,

as all those paralyzed moments of waiting

fade like wilted flowers.


Your hand, my hand, a memory and a dream intertwined.

Somewhere in another life we are together, perhaps a

parallel world exists, a place where all those petals picked

float down, landing in the hands of those who never

knew they were wanted.

She loved me,

she loved me not.


She did not want love at all,

only to be left alone in a glass vase

of unbreakable crystal.


Life breaks those who are fragile,

they fall from hands like stems

that smash on marble,

spilling the wine of potential.


You could spend your whole life sipping,

and never fully tasting,

or swallow it all in one shot and be done,

say all I needed has entered my bloodstream,

been detoxified through this one vein,

under pierced skin,

hard against the pulse of desire,

where this steady hand,

holds an empty syringe.


Birds refuse to fly in dark skies.

Sometimes the wind carries them

wing by wing,

as they balance against the storm,

a pair of blackbirds, separate from the

entire flock,

I watch them soar,

and think of us,


swaying under the stars.


Filed under Dark Romanticism, Dedication, Depression, Desire, Distance, dreams, Longing, Loss, Pain, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Feeling less alone, (on the nature of depression and butterflies)

Today I learned that the deep depression on the inner center of a human skull resembles a butterfly. Peering within, it’s as though at some time, this transitory beauty was meant to forever imprint upon us the delicate nature of a fleeting journey. Only if the skull is cremated or destroyed, does the memory of that gentle flower-seeker disappear. Within the hemisphere, the pituitary signaler of hormones, transmits chemicals to her butterfly mate, who lives innate in our throats, where the ability to speak, from time maternal, depends upon the migration of the one butterfly, straying south, and the other staying north, for without their separation, the vital energy it takes to live would cease. Such sacrificial love in nature creates brilliancy, but what’s more, it is the lack of electrical current that defines depression, as inhibitory. If this myopic view excludes further truth, it may one day be discovered that the real origin of our cranial pain, and mental suffering are related to this separation, to this lack of excitation within the neuronal center. It’s not the fact that there is a lack of stimulation, it is instead a lack of attention, a lack of response. “Soak me in serotonin, and watch me cry,” sings the butterfly. “No,” cries the other butterfly, “you are mistaken, I am that shadow, existing within the grey area, where the cloud formation never dissipates, do not think I can dissolve into elation. I journeyed once, more than a day, which in my time was forever, and I knew feeling and taste as vividly as each step one takes. Although I live in the echo from phonemes breaking, my real truth lies in the upper regions, where words form in synaptic response to thought, dark, enduring thought, which keeps my soul from dying, much like your heart beat keeps your body from flying. Through resonance and dissonance I am cocooned inside of you, always.”

The nurse sits with the patient as they discuss the power of non-verbal communication, ie; touch. “When you hold my hand,” she tells her, “I know you are there, it’s like a flower growing in my spine, I can feel it, I can sense it growing there, and though I know it will die once you let go, it helps me to feel less alone, it’s like a thousand astrocytes lighting up the dark sky inside of me.”


Filed under Borderline, Butterfly, Conversation, creative, Death, Depression, Distance, Drowning, Identity, inspirational, Loneliness, Longing, Loss, Love, Medical, Memory, Message, Mortality, Nostalgia, Pain, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Science, Self, Shadow, Sorrow, Soul, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Rigor mortis

It’s funny when he sees me, he thinks I need saving, because he sees only the most tortured parts under the microscope, “sorry you hear voices, I hear them too, the voice is audible, sounds like something sinister, perhaps you might think of praying,” is what his slowly sinking gaze speaks inaudibly, and when the doctor asks, “has anyone here ever seen a cadaver?” Not one of the nursing students answers, and he, the only man with a credible soul utters, “yes,” all eyes are on him, all the freshly pricked virgin ears, point in cochlear attention. yada, yada, “I once knew a man who was a professor, who had access to a morgue,” the topic is rigor mortis, stiff corpses, as I sip my morning coffee, and take a bite out of my raisin tea biscuit, alone in the back of the classroom, because I came late, and knee boy took my seat. I mutter under soft tones as all in the class attempt to lift the heavy air with their superficial speak, and the doctor looks at me, walks closer, asks me to repeat my words, but no one is listening, or so I think, when I say, “a baby, I saw a dead baby,” -“oh what did it look like?”-” It was limp, it’s arms and legs dangled.” He walks away speechless, then the boy who dreams of blowing Adam in eden, whilst on his knees, writhing w/ a painful patella, turns my way, holds his gaze, and repeats that same sunken look of sympathy, as inside I smirk apathetically. No one dares to ask, choosing instead to stay silent, yet I hear their thoughts float through the air like disembodied voices, voices without flesh, stiff voices with rigor mortis tongues. If they’d have asked, I’d have told them, I felt nothing. I felt nothing, I saw flesh, in the places where her infancy bled through purple epidermis, and without asking, I knew why, why the paramedics kept her for over an hour in the ambulance, when she had already succumbed to  “primary flaccidity” to save a young mother from the eminent shock that she was soon to feel, as PTSD leaked through her veins, like ink from squid, a thousand miles below sea level, where no voice could ever be heard.

There once was a cross-bridge, where thirty myosin heads could be seen bobbing on the surface of the river below, instead of help, they were screaming, “ATP, ATP, glycogen depleted.” There has been a deterioration of the sarcoplasmic reticulum.


Filed under Death, Memory, Poem, poetry, Science, travel, Uncategorized, writing


Before the glass shattered, it was already broken they say, true to the Zen principle of impermanence. I think of the day I first emerged from the taxi, taking your glass hand in mine, feeling the fragility of every molecule of crystal flowing in the summer light between our glass bodies as we held eachother. I recall the glass city, yet to be explored, shimmering with the beauty of ancient temples, mineral by mineral. I pay glass money to the mosaic man, whose eyes reflect in green visions from a childhood, still seen, on the surface of sand, surrounding the Pacific Ocean, where I shattered into sunlight, collecting broken bottles, which the water shaped to resemble lost gems of treasure. Where has that child gone, her body a mere memory held in cracked neurons, sustained there between the darkness and the stars? I am that bottle, I am that eye, fixated in green brilliance, over the radiance of these shattered encounters, from zygote grin to wrinkled skin. That day on the street, when the glass savior with blot on spoon, dissolving into liquid, injecting through syringe into glass vein through semen, into ovum, the opium of my fluid existence. I hear chimes ring as the wind smashes them against the window, echoing across this wild , wintry country, the songs he sang before my time of fiery emergence. I am that bottle, always accompanying me, in the broken luminescence between light and shadow. I tread carefully amid two contradicting forces, the one with glass breasts and the one with glass phallus, anima and animus, one jagged splinter, ever forging toward the mercurial, toward the mesenchyme of osteoblast and hyaline, ever regenerating new bones, new placenta, new spearhead toward multicellular matrix fold of glass rose, glass wine, glass romance, capable of falling from the balcony where my glassy infatuation lies, already a hazard to the lovers who pass by barefoot and careless tongued. Your countenance glistens, not with the warmth of orbital, but that of ice, incapable of deliquescing. Shatter me a million times, I am already broken, broken like a blister on the lips, where we kiss away the cancerous rays of ultraviolence. Don’t tell me the circle of vibrational circumference is always gravitating further away, because if you say this, we might need to stay, held down by the force of the world, which is forever fated to break.

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Filed under Heroin, Identity, Illusion, Loss, Memory, Poem, poetry, Time, travel, Uncategorized, writing

Memory’s Marrow

206, and yours were in the lower lumbar, I lie in the slumber of codependency, and when the nurse walks in on me, curled fetally near your rib cage, she assumes I’m your daughter, no use in bothering that it’s 4 a.m., as the old man in room 12b calls for more morphine. Without each other there’s the great depression, you’re the haploid cell in my gene expression, I’m like the repression of two faulty chromosomes along a y-axis, which really means nothing, except that I was the girl who risked death for you. You were the sweetness of tea where the drip of honey diffused viscously between warm thighs. Deeply is how I break in your arms, where they fused steel on epiphyseal lines. I ask God why I’m so easily fractured, and she says it must be love, love like warmth spilling out. They drew lines across your body, where the scalpel wrote poetry from your inability to keep normalcy. Faithfully we love, though the heart could mend or break us. Like natural selection, you ossified and died, as I went on to evolve beyond the collagenous glare of these scars. When the doctor sketched the image of your shattered spine, I thought of majestic butterflies lining the trunk of a tree, as the first harsh breeze of autumn tore them away from each other, and I felt some day, I’ll make my way back and pour my heart out in a cup and you will drink yourself sober, wake up without balding, without the wrinkles dissolving youth, pale skin in the morning, the sputum from toxic lungs, God knows I need a way out of this.


Filed under Cancer, Coffee & Tea, creative, Death, Depression, Memory, Mortality, Pain, Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing

The Magic of Fire

In a reversal of fortune, the sea fills to the brim with fish, the trees in clear-cut bareness return, the oil sinks back beneath the earth, and the first atomic bomb implodes into itself, into nothing that ever touched this green paradise with toxic eyes of contamination. We stare on with child’s curiosity as fruit grows pure and food is not modified by science. Every man, woman, and child, every animal ever murdered in the name of progress, in the name of difference is reborn. The wires of connection are cut as the hands of communication reach out in truth to touch us. For once we are naked again without greed or malice, without fear or shame, under the brightest sun we shine as one tribe, discovering the magic of fire.


Filed under travel, Uncategorized, writing


Your arm, thin as a syringe wraps around my ribs,

where the bird within flies,

one hundred times against the cage of me,

against the rage of me,

as emotions like steel bars locked in place

hold it from its freedom.


Filed under Poem, poetry, travel, Uncategorized, writing


The careful lover opens the virgin, while outside on a branch, a chrysalis tears apart with the ferocity of dying things, transcending. Somewhere in an overburdened city the people shout; Tipota ! Babies break out of wombs like exchanging prison cells, and we tick yes or no in the box, as if any politician could ever make a difference in this fucked up system, birthed on the genocide of less than civilised people, but if I do my part and comply than it’s me who gets deflowered. It’s me who walked through a field of poppies back towards a time when people understood the importance of plants and had no monetary idea of anything, and it’s as if I took the gun from the soldier and shot my own ancestor in the head. I’d be better of dead than free. And yet the suffragettes scream that this was our fight for freedom, and still others say my voice matters, it counts. Tally it up. I’ll be counting the stars and wishing on dying things, all in the name of nothing.


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The Tame Bird Was In A Cage

THE tame bird was in a cage, the free bird was in the forest. They met when the time came, it was a decree of fate. The free bird cries, ‘O my love, let us fly to the wood.’ The caged bird whispers, ‘Come hither, let us both live in the cage.’Says the free bird, ‘Among bars, where is there room to spread one’s wings?”Alas,’ cries the caged bird, ‘I should not know where to sit perched in the sky.’The free bird cries, ‘My darling, sing the songs of the woodlands.’ The caged bird sings, ‘Sit by my side, I’ll teach you the speech of the learned.’ The forest bird cries, ‘No, ah no! songs can never be taught.’ The caged bird says, ‘Alas for me, I know not the songs of the woodlands.’ Their love is intense with longing, but they never can fly wing to wing.Through the bars of the cage they look, and vain is their wish to know each other. They flutter their wings in yearning, and sing, ‘Come closer, my love!’ The free bird cries, ‘It cannot be, I fear the closed doors of the cage.’The caged bird whispers, ‘Alas, my wings are powerless and dead.’




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In the hopes of sparing your heart

You say fine, fine fine. Will you judge me or will you love me still, if I become that girl? You say yes. Your voice is an arctic province in the midst of January, pure ice, beyond melting. Fine. It’s settled. I am a star that gets drawn down from the sky, see me dying? You are so frigid beyond breaking, nothing penetrates you, especially not me, not even when I gather debris from other planets and threaten to eradicate the earth of my own being, with you and everything. It’s my voice at high volume hitting a wall of silence. I’m so drawn to those stoic types,  the ones you can’t reach without the violence of a broken self, in the hopes of sparing your heart.


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Wordless in a sea of words

I am wordless in a sea of words, struck silent. I feel I will always be dreaming and never wake up with you by my side. That thought seems most tragic, the one that erases history into hollow. The one I would follow until the stars died. I can’t remedy this feeling of a blur on my soul, this empty striving for light, that leaves me always in the shadows. I am a pale flicker on a vast highway of black. The silhouettes of countless strangers who entered me in the night,  their names  forgotten in the light of day. But their words thrust deep, like an endless sea in my memory. I only recall what they said and their eyes and arms and hard bodies, the sharp acuity of what they tossed away. “You will make some man very happy some day. You give amazing head, it’s as if you were a star fallen from the sky, ” etc. It’s as if I always knew. They start us young. Men who said watch your words around the ladies and there are children present. Then hunting you out as soon as the sun faded in dark places and eating your child’s soul with pleasure, while teaching you how to handle snakes and be a good girl. I felt those snakes once menacing in my four year old hands to be rather comedic and sad as I grew into a woman. How they were once hard and then turned suddenly defeated. Women never struck me that way. It was I who was defeated by them. Now life itself defeats me and this striving for a love that never existed. A real love worth surrendering to.

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Another passing thought

Some do it through fucking & procreating others through painting, taking photos & writing; it’s all just  ways of our fading and trying to immortalize ourselves.

The wise ones do it through love.

Love of everything..

Love of nothing.

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She represses her heart like a tsunami, but you look like a Japanese city long overdue for a flood. Your smile is a cavern cracked at the edge of the sea, which dissolves her completely. When she hurts planets collide and stars die. Betray her and she will feel the world subside. You could be a universe in her sky and then barely the blink of an eye. The earth falls in on itself, leaving an empty abyss. She keeps a distance so as not to let the closeness destroy her.

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The Chorus the Sun Sings Aloud

I wish I had your Greek physique, not too strong or weak
I wish I was not this obscene figure standing on the terrace of time.
Love is a crime, in which our punishment exists in loving.
It tore me away from you; the brilliant sky dissolved of all light, in the lonely night,
the shadowed desperado of my heart, the girl whose sorrow haunts me in the dark, assaults me with a vengeance of fire. I won’t pretend this is love,
above our garden of marbled desire.

To exacerbate pleasure over pain, we gain a new vision,
white birds through a pink incision, always in motion, migrating, but silent;
want was a violent song held in my throat too long.
A deep need to bleed lyric echoes so atmospheric that the planets near it cannot orbit us,
cannot absorb my hunger for you, (bandaged and wounded,) cannot inhabit your soft world, the scent of a girl out in the wild, dreams plucked from the shores of our childhood. Treasure in the hands of a woman who wants to be touched, is it too much to ask for the same rush of wonder fluttering down your spine, like fruit on a vine swallowed by the mouth of the sea that I crave so constantly?

There is no island grand enough to contain the light that engulfs her body, she is the white dove, the flock of your hand stroking a stranded cloud,
the chorus the sun sings aloud.



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