Skip to content
Skip to search - Accesskey = s
In the midnight of remembering, I am wound, tight as a Lark
in a moonlit garden, fraught with Nicotina and Columbine, where
Memories are Breadcrumbs and trail back to the SweetSpot, which
we search for, hands dirty, on nocturnal knees.
leave a comment
Name (required)
E-mail (will not be published) (required)
Website
Notify me of follow-up comments via email.
Notify me of new posts via email.
Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.
leave a comment