The Agony of Letting Go

I yearned to press your storied palms to my lips; to kiss the hands that hold tales of silent battles and quiet victories.

Growing Flowers from the Wounds

I am every jagged edge of rock waiting to be climbed; to see what’s beyond.

The same softness of a human can be found in a tree.

It whispers the ugliest words, echoes of those who hurt the tenderness in us.

I can only sit and observe the winding streets of your hurt.

Into ash and stone leaping downwards. This place would never feel like home.

Thinking of home I am a Universal vagabond with my heart strapped on

In the hovering bowels of mysticism where the cynics hang their hats, she waits to be acknowledged.

You can give a million pieces of your heart.

I can't recall ever longing for silence more than in this moment.

There's a faded line etween reality band time.