At some point, even the greatest misery begins to fade. Life, or what passes for life, plods on in it's own unending weary footsteps, and somehow we plod along with it, if we stay lucky.
Sometimes I struggle. Sometimes I falter. Sometimes I live in gray. But always I remember the yarrow you__e grown in the spaces of my rib cage. I now love with roses from my heart, with lilacs from my mouth.
The Age of Recovery
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Sometimes I struggle. Sometimes I falter. Sometimes I live in gray. But always I remember the yarrow you__e grown in the spaces of my rib cage. I now love with roses from my heart, with lilacs from my mouth.
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