Writing

The clock is broken

It stopped ticking a long time ago

stopped counting how much time has passed.

It's an old grandfather clock, oak wood, and sculpted to perfection

carefully crafted by hands

that belonged to men

You’re pretty like sunshine and roses

But also like orchids in moonlight

Like water reflecting the sky

Like tired nights when the wind heaves a sigh

There are 

two roads

under the weight 

of war:

one paved in iron 

and blood,

brutality met 

leaves let go

each one a page ripped out of summer's book

each one a memory that hasn't been remembered since 1969

each one a fragment of what was 

why care? they say.

Astronomy room.
post storm; window open; wet. 
cooling Earth soaked air.

Can I-

intrude into your fantasy?

Can I tell you a shocking truth?

Can I become everything you hate

so that I can love myself?

Can I dream of a job with impactful meaning