galatea
i will the pen
after her as she runs
toward someone
else. a fugitive
of my making
leaving me
is unacceptable.the trap is
a pit of paper
filled with spiked
words, hidden
by weeding
kindness.she wills the words
back to me as I stand
alone, a criminal
of my own making,
soaked in the ink
of guilt.the trap was
of my own hands,
filled with weeds that
grow in rain from
clouds of words that
chose to pour.
I drown inepiphany.
Of Trees and Leaves
It is at the most inopportune times that I find bursts of great energy to write and write and write.
(Source: sunmark)
at the riverbank
i crouch
scooping water into
my hands
as i am about to splash
my face
the man beside me says
“take not more than you need”
