When one wears history
it is a stubborn blemish
on white blouse's sleeve,
to pull it up,
is a reprieve
ink seeped
under the crease
like Lady Macbeth's
damned spot: what is
made of skin
cannot be scrubbed.
A drop loses herself in the puddle, The river's spirit is engulfed Ushered downhill from high To low altitudes all sentient sentiment...
I When told a twisted flute cannot carry A dulcet tune, that we are all hollow now, try as we might To ignore distant calling chimes....
Humus weighs heavy Swaddled in thick mire mantle Sleep now, nimble bud Among writhing roots forlorn Tall shall sprout Sun's blade reborn
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