this could be a letter of forgiveness to mom or dad. this could be love letters or letters of rage, who could tell? it is backwards dark moon or it was, for a very long time.
now, sight is restored, there’s no more riddle making. there’s no more suggesting that riddle making aint a form of song. the underground language was first ours to begin with, so what we do with our words continues to be entirely up to us
fuck em’ all.
sing your song/
the world comes. it grants us, count stars. I stand alone on the edge of the cul-de-sac in the blackness that is purple at the edge, translucence of twilight still hidden in its desolate touch, i can see the pink in between that is the remnants of trees. mother
we are cloaked in your hush. what is sweet, let it be sweet. what is missing, returned. what has been dropped or lost, let it be forgotten or, lest there be resistance of need for the space of rest in between, let these unanswered gaps be full with patience
for what? we know not
let that be what is peace
i rest in you. thank the grass for how it grows upwards which perhaps to itself, coming from underneath as it does, is actually upside down
thank the stars for my sullen feet. and what is right side up,