and joy, enjoy.
2026-09-15
i pour my heart out have a drink,
my soul, an inn hidden behind the bushes,
something about being out there that's hard,
it sits vandalized in the physical plane,
once again vibrancy's scent attracted hunters,
ravagers, savages, inn is a front,
the artifacts, they're regular objects, not for an overlooker to see,
they're for a looker to see and see them and me,
do broken pieces change the story?
a visitor or a trespasser, are you here to foretell what's foretold?
are we meant to cast a mold before we're old? to look and remember, the road?
what if it breaks again?
will a chalice hold the rain?
what's the gain when we drink from it? the summit, what's above it?
what are we here for? why we do what we do? is it to change our story? or the story we tell ourselves?
what am i meant to do when i fall in a well? get close to hell?
am i supposed to die there? with nothing attached to my name?
am i supposed to have nothing? how am i to own when life is owed?
this might be the place to stop, if i get deeper i'll forgot,
in this hole, the knot will swallow me whole.
how do you want to read?
poems can unravel themselves as you read, line by line, at a considered pace — or just sit there, fully visible, like normal.
change this anytime — look for “reading: …” near the top of any poem.