Incarnadine

The platelets, plasma and hemoglobin that churn, With the petal folds of my heart to blossom a red rose, Making their own music of a gush that I discern, Thudding…
View Post

An Old Monk

A bud is plucked before could bloom, Friendly four corners snore of this room; What lives when that dies in whom, Leftover moist ashes of last monsoon. How whole about…
View Post