with too many things in my head i write to sort it all till the sky is empty and there’s no poetry
those dusty words ready to be wiped clean I drink in December rainto write that warmth…
will you call me greedy if I tell you I love to hoard memorieswill you judge me if I tell…
in the wilderness raindrops on dried leaves somewhere Buddha smiles again
a haiku
what do I pack books or my thoughts in my bag.
