I heard what you said through the halls of my mind. I reach for the memories, still sharp. Your cuts are not fresh and bloody, but raw and frigid.
By C. K. Little4 years ago in Poets
I hear the news and it stays in my head like an agonizing migraine wrapping around the brain, squeezing People drop words, like people drop bombs, exploding through bodies
She sat underneath the mostly barren sycamore trees in the garden of the desolate church in which only a single daffodil had yet bloomed and the
