Oct 15, 2022
1 min read
Be-Witched
Poetry
Low hung ample apples of the sun
On the tree of knowledge. Right next to me.
Enough for you, enough for me.
Extends my irresolution.
I need to hear the crashing of the sea
to believe in me
to mercilessly set me free from these unghosted unknown
unknowns that hover on this edge
of consciousness, always out of reach,
the sublime sublimity,
of that extra sensory perception
of what we are always without, lacking
the courage to face the…
