28th April, '09
Familiar streets, warm with knowing,
my memories infinite, secret;
my womb of struggling years,
my confidante ethereal.
Buried with stories at each curve,
buried with the knowledge of my being,
fragrant, elusive, yesterdays,
the delusive and the real.
I wait to be one with you again,
I wait for the reunion of our spirits once more,
I wait to be under your watch again,
My chaperon of unseen dreams.
Looking Away
-
. . . that story does not make sense. Babies can “report their experience”
and they do. They do so loudly. Persuasively. The “medical establishment”
appare...
3 days ago
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