by June 22, 2019 0 comments

A small bag
A torch
A tin box and pipe

These are the tools

To present my past
To rescind the guilt
To connect to the source
Of what I am not

Some call it magic
An other

But names are misplaced
On this false print of paths
And easily pierced
By their own savage thorns

Forget about this
And leave behind that

Crossing the bridge
Flies buzz on the burn

Kill the mind child
Return this earth to the dust

editors note:

The magic we make, in time, unmakes us. Naturally! – mh clay

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