by on March 30, 2018 :: 0 comments

Sans passports your words fly
to my islet. From far-off places
your eyes key passages. In
reign of entropic radiations
there is no empath. Cushioned
by half-knowledge, in twirl
of half-truths we subsist
in centers of our seeking.

editors note:

Come, they fly, but land, not. You keep speaking, I’ll keep seeking… – mh clay

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