The blue sticks
to my hand,
as the sky fills.
Even though my poems
are blood-clotted.
A thousand million rains,
cannot take this away.
Seared into my soul,
these single minded snares.
Let’s take this night
The blue sticks
to my hand,
as the sky fills.
Even though my poems
are blood-clotted.
A thousand million rains,
cannot take this away.
Seared into my soul,
these single minded snares.
A Wandering Poet 