I open my hand Allowing the world to spill out Onto the ground In shards of brokenness And heartache Bitterness And self-deprecating antics- Some say there’s always hope But some things aren’t worth hoping for So,I carry on. I open the other hand And welcome…

I’m not dreaming this sense of allegory I’m not imagining this sense of melancholy dark robed figures swing scimitars in grain filled fields of wheat and oats death is in the harvest bloated bodies line the streets no cart, no crier, no relief i can’t…