I can only talk about myself

I can only talk about myself. I can only tell you who I was and not what I can become. My world vision has entropied, I can hardly see beyond the pale. Imagination eludes me, so do riches or comfort or peace or love. I can only talk about myself but there isn't all that… Continue reading I can only talk about myself

That which is broken

That which is broken now sits bent in my jacket pocket squeezed into a mush of feeling and paper bits. Spilt blue ink turns the river green the river of your belonging across my body spread vaguely thin where shall you go with this crackling stream? where shall you rest your marauding gleam? These pebbles… Continue reading That which is broken