by on December 16, 2013 :: 0 comments

when I imagine
the life of others,
I can see
inside my own
a sacred place,
a door without a key
a constellation of apples
ready to be picked
with one hand
but no answers,
only metaphors,
like the elastic
skeleton of a sea sponge
holding water.

editors note:

Who’s to say that our swelling seas are nothing more than the wrung out wash of a million billion sea sponges, expelling our existence? – mh

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