I ash my blues
onto these pages—
among coffee stains,
tear-blurred ink,
and the ghost
of Chopin’s Nocturnes.
Modernity
drives the pure
to madness—
a splinter lodged
too deep,
a truth you taste
long before
it wounds you.
I’m not one
to reject the world,
but for the love
of God—
let me be.
