My hero turned out to be a monster,
it sinks further in my chest; frail leaves
and empty words spill—spill
Tag: Identity
nothing left.
unparalleled, my father disintegrates. the sunsets are claret as they burst. the glass region, eyed by the ants, flourishes in the light by remembering; eyes, pressing to abandoned wounds in the blood-flow of my poems; i have nothing left to say to you
Acedia.
One memory
death has fallen like the decayed fruit;
the shores have frozen,
and our bones are shivering
dark-blue
Pseudopsychosis. 