by on April 23, 2019 :: 0 comments

Firsthand accounts frozen in the mind’s igloo
require fieriness of touch by words or vestiges
from tunesmiths of our time to thaw into stanzas.
Past, however unclean has admission. Flip-flop
of feelings censure a sense of stasis. There is no
need to disclose maelstroms. Stillness is smoke.

editors note:

Fan flame, melt from mind’s eye into memorandum; mildly, now, no tempest torn. – mh clay

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