Love is silent... screaming NO from our darkest bits and claiming to be of pure intent. But love is wrapped around our core, and in it's fertile soil, often hemlock grows. Those darkest parts are often cold and they breed a singular green eyed demon who haunts our steps and bids us forward into benighted gardens. There the vines grow, perturbed by the warmth of a body close beside us. They shriek and flee from gentle words and build up walls inside us. So with subtle shears we trim the verge, and push back against the darkness hoping soon... that for a life... we could try to harvest kindness
YOU ARE READING
Floating
PoetryI've collected a lot of works I have made for me and thrown them into a mess of empathic poetry I have done for others.
