She Weaves Me A Casket

Weaving, etching meanings without words. Weaving memories, reaping love; I mimic her tune. Weaving magic. Weaving beauty, from the inside out. She beckons me to watch with her, the jubilant sun, waking up from its slumber. Beckoning me, and I watch with her, everyday, a routine. I always find her there, standing, wishing the sun…

What Do You Call It?

What do you call it When yelling into a canyon, My voice distant, my own echo does not even call back? What do you call it When you witness that I’m fighting my own battle And no one’s there to lend me a shoulder to cry on? When no one’s there to wipe my tears?…