hypocritepoet

My mother used to take me to used bookstores.

Some find themselves only after they are lost.

Between the stacks I heard your quiet sigh.

Walls made of wood And the roof was the sky Gates lead to mystery But we never asked why.

The snow fell heavy and fast all night long, coating the world in a blanket of wonderful white that silences everything small to great. A sense in what has changed visually and aurally is maybe why we both rise early this morning.

A red leaf falls

I want to draw them like my french girls.

How she is quiet before his robe falls

My mother is an alcoholic. I HATE saying this.

When I was twelve My mother decided It was time

7pm – October 21, 2024

A coal train clacks and rumbles by.