poem

A soul is immortal, life’s hidden portal. A soul is everything defined, a riddle untwined. A soul is perfect perfection, a creation of sweet affection.

Poised on the edge of the cliff of his life He hesitates to jump So he looks back over a desert and questions Is this all there was? All there is

Over the hills into the trees Down to the pond on hands and knees Fishing for tadpoles

Mother is dead

This was it. A metal leaf bent up at the sides like a rolled tongue. Or rather, a canoe. Handforged from iron. And here the pitted striker, gone at with tiny axes it looked like.

You are soft and have a crisp feel you have the lustrous feeling of silk you resist shrinkage moths and mildew but your ability to absorb moisture is poor which makes you a rotten hankie.