I again crave the humanity of a summer evening’s air, the warmth of old sunlight and dancing bodies, where the wind is soft and careful,
By Hela B10 months ago in Poets
I have painted my walls red and left some running down to touch the carpet. The darkened brush bristles shedded in the process
By Hela B12 months ago in Poets
Your translucent palms unravel and show the lines like rivers under your faint fingers, to offer what remains solid in your watery hands.
By Hela Babout a year ago in Poets
We accept and say. Move your trained tongues, fill your blackened lungs. There is a way. A golden path engineered, for the lucky few who adhered.
Air of ice and tobacco, keeping warm with hot tea and cigarettes, dry reddened fingertips and bleeding lips. All stood softly glancing
The pink and white stick is faced down on the off-white toilet seat and I stay far away. It is a ticking bomb, I wait for its explosion.
