a puce stone from afar


Walking through

heather and fern

onto a mountain hill



on a bed of stones


they press into my body

from different angles


Placing a hand

on my stomach

and wonder


where your stone

is placed


Finding a puce rock


filled with pores


ready to carry

your whispers


and fill the opaque holes

with auriferous veins


that your

words do


I will bring air




It awaits your skin



if you are

ever in need




to be held



Related Blogposts

Do you remember? Can you? Maybe it was just a moment. Maybe it was many. Sweaty bodies packed with instruments, clowns and wonder dust. Lose yourself in the stimuli. Tap into the harmonic. Heartmonic. Harmanic. Heartmanic. Which one is it again? Leopard print pants. Drawing with lipstick all over your…

Not a home, per say but a pyre on which to cast ones self and be immolated.