Relapsed poet || Tree lover || Lives permanently in a dream world of thoughts and thoughts and more thoughts..and in the real world as a side gig.
As I go back to the riverside
For years, I weaved my own love stories
Poets are born in the silence of chaos
amidst broken swings, leaking roofs and chipped crayons
yet spill tidy words like spiced brandy
and laced chocolate on winter’s night
Breathers of the dark and the torch bearers of the brightest light…