Amidst a shifting haze.
(In spite of the illness of your features.)
There was once a garden.
Because this hand is bleeding, I cannot move to hold. Because these fingers want to hurt, I cannot touch a thing. I can still feel, though, and somehow I’ll never not – I feel a distance cut me when you tell me it’s an end. So neatly severed, then, I fester behind glass. No, a…… Continue reading Dissection. [Freeform Poem]
Toes in soil.
Once, it was better.
These glasses don’t allow for clarity.