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This poem is a fair …….(maiden) in a bright tower, sticky with cotton candy clouds and crowds of dark (k)nights in dashing star-spilled skin. She’s in it for the pop -corn, you know, the equality that only comes from tumbled … Continue reading
.. She is still left mourning this powdered sugar skin, frozen limbs, a hush of snow. inkin’ in thirds on thursdays.
.. She begins the day with a cup, a word, a dream stirred; breathes her self -of steam. .. written for ink in thirds.
We find ourselves at winter’s center, speaking in snowflakes to a frozen-faced moon. Photo and prompt from over at inking in thirds.
I am still waiting for the moon to find her own light. I mean, she can’t just lie there like a mirror forever, can she? Can I please hold something in my hands that might not wane? If I rip … Continue reading
.. Not much more than what’s on her back, gettin’ back on track sometime next summer, perhaps. A song in her heart and an upturned, grateful face; anticipation of sunrise, and other graffiti’d grace. .. Prompted by Poetic Asides. … Continue reading
.. just a line or two clacked against all this busy breeze. .. prompted by poetic asides