it is a big box
the small stuff of a so-called
sentimentalist
the fragilities’
home in an humilty
inseparable
such simplicities
its until is & fit to
silence tomorrow
Poetry
it is a big box
the small stuff of a so-called
sentimentalist
the fragilities’
home in an humilty
inseparable
such simplicities
its until is & fit to
silence tomorrow
i keep too many things and there is something about being called sentimental. because it’s not a weakness. it’s actually a strength to treasure the past.
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I have a shovel, but, years ago…I remember, I buried the map.
It’s a good reason, an old atlas.
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