Soulful writing about humans and places
I have aborted myself to feed my children.
my love, my thoughts, my writing – all of them, aborted fetuses,
because my children needed to eat regular
meals.
but behold! –
my children are not necrophagous.
they do not thrive on the smell of death and destruction.
theirs are the souls
enraptured by the seed of light
theirs are the hands
that carry the torch.
My inner mystic is plagued by insomnia and runs entirely on divine grace. The outer shell, however, does occasionally need: jasmine tea, ice cream (preferably salted caramel), good books, music, and new horizons. If you’d like to help keep this blog alive, please choose an amount:
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Writer Between Worlds 