there are no ideas here,
only dark slashes of rain,
and scavenger birds
able to speak
but often unwilling,
and my heart,
thirteen years old again
and in a dirty red hoodie,
glad for the rain
and the burning wind
that brings it.
[]
only dark slashes of rain,
and scavenger birds
able to speak
but often unwilling,
and my heart,
thirteen years old again
and in a dirty red hoodie,
glad for the rain
and the burning wind
that brings it.