Conversations and time
Old ones like wine
That which is far
Or locked in a jar
Called by memories
And sifting through the debris
Through patient hands
Holding back and
Letting go in a rhythm
Like a simple prism
That knows its colours
Always leave me coloured…
And I walk ahead
With a better vision.
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Weekly Newsletter
Recent Posts
- Darkness and Pleonasm
- Agnes Obel and The Narrative
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- One-All!
- Interviewing A Busy Ant