Octavos

eyes are the windows to the soul,reflections of our inner selves.so paint the edges up with kohland through the darknesshide

And if there is a black stone at the base of the cornstalk,imagine I have laid your heart on it,and

handfulof ashesblows awayinto everylost possibility Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com

None of the dead can be counted and namedinfinitely, the Romans’ majorityso much more enduringly crowded beneath the earththan we

I bring hope to the potluck and invite you to take a taste.“Dig in!” I say, taking a big bite

Infernal shadows chase him down.Undying rage heats his breath.With light and fire he fights.One billion days spentBut still the darkWon’t

I eat tenderness, breathe love.I scoop my beating heart from my chest,lay it to rest under the black walnut tree.I

The songs we sing when we’re alonehave all been heard by ears attunedto greater sensitivitiesthan we thought possible. Mirrorscaught our

The shortest story ever writtenabout a life not especially shorta story with an accurate beginninga precise middle and an exact

Flying solo, her soul power-packed back sparks a fired levitation.Steering towards the source, her burning brew glows and flows,flashing anew,