Somewhere in the white hot core of the Dancer's spirit
lie the remnants of too much vision,
lies the residue of a thousand broken treaties:
lies the child who bartered with discount Angels.
She will no longer mistake the gardeners for her Messiahs.
Somewhere in the white hot core of the Dancer's spirit
lie the remnants of too much vision,
lies the residue of a thousand broken treaties:
lies the child who bartered with discount Angels.
She will no longer mistake the gardeners for her Messiahs.
"I know I'm sunk deep to this point
To the point where I'm drowned
Into this bowl of honey I feel
I feel like there's no other way out"
A collection of poems about love, admiration and fondness.