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  • Poetry > Free Verse
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    I’m just a spine. The stem of a flower. The bones that which hide me Find that they’re fond of messes Deeper now- A rich wine color The smell of paint which confines- Tiny tinted lips, Emptier within Than before when I collapsed A searching thought Against walls of stiff fabr...
  • Poetry > All Poetry
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    A man looks at the night and sees only the dark, But an artist looks at the dark and sees only forgotten forms of light, Which have fallen from their grace, Beneath the clever cloaks of night An artist positions God beneath his frame To guide man toward the measure, That has shriveled be...

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