At night,
the poem seeks itself like
the blinking white of
an eye
amid the dark
tempest.
Soulful writing about humans and places
At night,
the poem seeks itself like
the blinking white of
an eye
amid the dark
tempest.
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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