Poetry · Writing


Common ground and a two way street are on opposite sides of the world. If your in the wrong place start in the underworld.

Baking a pie to feed your most wanted. The scraps are in the trash and it’s like I’m haunted.

They gather around to watch you open your presents under the tree. I can still hear her scream that malevolent banshee.

Her eyes flicker under the raising sun on a Sunday morning. Gather around the cross and weep and your not alone in this rainy mourning.


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