Seaweed smudged like watercolour under the rippling tops of the silver water That lap against the green and whites of the lilipads And distant evergreen borders the vast moving reflection of the sky and I sway and rock in thin plastic barriers between me and the rhythm of the waves I want to surrender to the cold of the lake through my fingertips colours deeper than a paintbrush the mirror when I peer off the edge of the boat so much deeper than the mirror I knew and see a version of myself more clearly through the waves than under superficial tones I lather on faces because I think I am a painter but I did not know beauty yet
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We Are Drowning, How Should We Kill Our Time?
PoesíaThis collection of stream of consciousness prose was written during a very special time in my life. I left the city following a massive burnout, and lived in the country for months. I began a garden, cut most of my ties to the outside world, and wro...
