Your giant spirit
was never in the grave.
Only ghost-scared people
thought it was.
Every lit candle,
a passing breeze.
That turn at last
to a trailing blue hair.
And a naked self-soul,
that flashes in a
bloody spree.
A candle heart
A Wandering Poet
As I walk around I like to record what I experience. Through poetry, ideas and thoughts I hope I can share some of these experiences with you.
A Wandering Poet 
🖤
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