The last time, a flood.Locked her up after that.Been waiting forfear to subside. For tides to wash awaythe bones, the deathI cooked from crushed heartsbleached of passion. That light just feels, feelstoo bright, too strong,a scorching wavefor a desert shore. But I haven’t looked,not since then;where’s the key?Ah, in her pocket. All that time, aeons […]
Joanne E Sprott, Intuitive Mentor
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