COLLECTIONS

Little vases
march out of the closets
that exists
between light
and bright.
they are silent,
But rip at the heart
like demons
until we fill them
with the water
of our lives.
It is the very sweat of intentions,
dripping,
nearly bleeding
from our
mental chalkboards of sins.
In the sanctuary
where we sup
upon a diet of assumptions
breath becomes perfect and exhausted.