Can you see the cracks
within these worn hands? They are
damaged, yet still whole
Can you see the cracks
within these worn hands? They are
damaged, yet still whole
What is left to grow?
What is still left for burning?
What is to hide from?”
The ghosts around here
haunt as if they’re residents
of a small mansion.
I, too am behind
like trying to swim upstream
but still not moving.
But what if this light
is nothing but a candle
slowly burning out?
A lone blackbird flies
in the middle of a blizzard-
it has lost the ground
As we move on we
struggle to remember times
of silence and song
The bright moon was full
before it knew how to hide,
knew to disappear.
Just thinking
thinking thinking I’m
just thinking.
The ghosts are routine
around here, by the river,
where things stay and go.