Posted in Photography, Poetry

Sacred Rhythm


Intellectual Honesty
Hips shifting. I hang a sign
“My soul is not for sale.”
around my neck.
People approach his upholstered chair
strategically positioned,

it remains vacant
in the consignment store.
I seat my language
upon the landscape vapor
a desert, embellished with torrid tears
helpless hearts, we are.

These frozen moments tucked indoors
you read me as tea leaves
floating swiftly towards the forest floor.

Embellished with a beady smile
you pour favor from a thousand rainbows
upon this ocean corridor.

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