A neat, quadratic canvas of emerald turf a littler off center, at autumn's eve lies no garden of silver bells gentle English sensibility; rather ancient oak trees, Spanish moss sagging all engineered into perfect, Machiavellian rows. Mary, Mary, quite contrary. written in Forsyth Park, 11 Sep, ~5:37pm.
ode to a little star
as though waves washing back from obsidian shores the clouds reveal you i hear their hastening upon the wind. i know what you are, now; and yet, the twirling galaxy in my chest this interstellar gravitas plucks the awe in me like sea stars dusts my dreams with pearls. june 28, 2022. 10:08pm.
The-Bleu-Bivouac 