I once spilled and used paper as continents.
It held me until I reached my mind, I pulled
my thoughts into the sun, and when they burned
I spilled more onto them. Ashes became human
again. Soaked towels around thin air, pushed
the humid thoughts to storms. It poured itself
out to puddles, I dipped the paper in and made
a raft.
YOU ARE READING
dirt & human
PoetryThis collection has the dirt for my grave and my soul for God but when it rains there's meaning for my muddy heart. (Some of the poems are older and published already, I moved them to this collection, so if you recognize a poem that's why.)
