Category: Poetry

listening to the storm outside, the storm inside

all heavy and unrelenting

and not a damn thing to do about it

And still you mould your familiar clay, Its edges hopelessly soft and yielding. Please, take up some sharp and heavy something, Shatter these pieces and burn the pointed shards.

We're born to pine, kin, and stone. Home's harsh tang to us never sours in the mouth.

In Mongolia, sheets of milky ice stretch over flat plains, go on and on and on, a monotony so strong, very little breaks it.

…the men who survived the failure of media 

and when he told me to step back to see the wider view to look for any people that I knew to see what they were doing I saw one yelling at another