Poetry

Each dawn unfolds the same worn script of hours,
like circles drawn in the sand that waves mock.

The Labyrinth

I am the typo
that learned to dream.

The Disco Ball of My Soul

Hard to admit that I used to burn
Matchsticks and the crumpled page
spindle of a two-sided rage
It was soothin', watchin' the spark in devotion, liberate the fire from its cage

Flame