Atammayata Birth and death, love and hate, the burnt scentof cloves on fingers and campfire on jeans,…..nothing is attached for long.In the butter-soft leather light of purple fog,a royal procession of swans announce themselves. Not made of that, the lake is restless for now. Sunken Garden You say my eyes are mesmerizing,….what do you see when I look through you? When I penetrate you, unravel you, disrupt your heart with my gaze?….Oh yes, we are in the weeds now, my […]
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