Limping, wrapped in tattered night cloaks and left rejected A life of isolation rejected by an invented church all our own.A religion of treasure chestsHanging from around our necks.Songs without key or measure Seek us from the outside inSpacing the ribs, peeling back fascia with rusted old tools Of alchemy. We come to find our… Read More Anathema
A haiku for #keepitalive #whatdoyousee… Read More A Haiku for the Writing Prompt #whatdoyousee #keepitalive
You now hear my broken chords
Faintly in the the distance unmoored
Loosed and free until run aground
Upon a salty moore. Safely cleaned
I glean on the white million grain shore
And here I lay against my will
Here grounded evermore.
Yet I’ll still wake in the morning.
Habitually when my hands
Parting the sheets aways, sailed
Long gone I still reach after you.
I’m the water, the dew
Maturing into a pinguid mist
As the hands strike up the
Song we clap at noon.
The hour’s imminent.
Time to ride a wicked dream on
A silk weaved carpet twisted
With last night’s ghostly breath.
The documentation of metastatic breast cancer is written by those of us who lose our lives to the disease. No one gets to write the end of our story with “she lived happily ever after” – but we aren’t losers. We struggle with the language to describe how our bodies ultimately succumb to a terminal… Read More The history of Metastatic Cancer: written by the losers