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Literature Text
at heart we are all flood-worshippers,
a fetishization of water
carrying some stray seed.
i am an ambassador
a sunbeam unable to disturb
the arrythmic breathing of your hypnopompic nightmare
a slave to what neither i nor any of you
will ever describe.
open the gates
-
the sun will melt
the moment you understand.
(and i'll shed my body
into a cloudy flock of rays
on this faraway hilltop)
(you can't see me)
i am but less than one percent
of the sky solution
drink it
drink it all
a fetishization of water
carrying some stray seed.
i am an ambassador
a sunbeam unable to disturb
the arrythmic breathing of your hypnopompic nightmare
a slave to what neither i nor any of you
will ever describe.
open the gates
-
the sun will melt
the moment you understand.
(and i'll shed my body
into a cloudy flock of rays
on this faraway hilltop)
(you can't see me)
i am but less than one percent
of the sky solution
drink it
drink it all
Literature
The Sins of The Father
I’m the sum of all my fathers
But I won’t carry all their sins
The seed of life is precious
But blown away by gentle winds
Bad that’s happened in the past
Cannot be blamed today
For those who came before us
Have left their mark but gone away
We may inherit family features
And some traits just carry on
But we are all individuals who
Need to know that we belong
Literature
Winter
I remember winter in
the old stove we huddled at,
an audience of shivering limbs
within cold walls.
There was a desperation to this closeness
that love could never inspire. It glowed
within us, a common flame
we dared not feed, and through
the night we curled in embers
and burned ourselves to sleep.
I could almost remember summer’s
cotton arms, the playfulness
of ocean waves in August. Those dreams
wished to drown us beneath memories
and wishes, but
in the moment before we awoke,
as the tide cried
for me to stay, I always
always swam to shore.
Every morning, I breathed snow-capped
mountains in the air. They were nothing
more th
Literature
Of All the Places in the Universe
She was a button girl. Thirteen and already too old to be beautiful with grimy cheekbones accented by listless, golden-gray hair. She spent her time trying to sell her collection, dozens of buttons lined neatly in a haggard box. The large one with tiny flowers etched into them, a plain navy one, and the bright pink button were her favorites. They were the ones she hoped would find a home in some little girl's cherished dress or a mother's apron.
With her coat straining around her, eyes crowded with years of cold and unease, she held out her box to a passerby. Buttons flashed in the muted light, but the man scoffed as he continued past her. S
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Really wonderful work.