Loss has an inner surface
Not a collection of hair and bones
Every stone hides an unseen entity
Watch me bloom
Not a collection of hair and bones
Glass is set in every forehead’s window
Watch me bloom
To stroke the strange
Glass is set in every forehead’s window
Paradise is like a vessel in this world
To stroke the strange
A tiny bird in the hand.
Paradise is like a vessel in this world
Every stone hides an unseen entity
A tiny bird in the hand.
Loss has an inner surface