top of page
Books
Some fragments grow restless and stitch themselves into spines.
Here lie the books—assembled in shadows, whispered into print.
You may find them if you look closely… or if they decide to find you first.
"I think my heart has a special chamber
reserved for Grief, a sort of a prison.
And my mind is a regular visitor."
"Will I ever be able to trust again,
When every whisper breeds suspicion?
Doubt creeps in like creeping vines,
Choking the hope that still shines."
bottom of page