I’m calling my own bluff, I can’t not share this shit


It’s not the Rose it’s the Lotus or It’s the Lotus not the Rose

The woman was small which made her

look, at first glance, to be frail.  Her

social awkwardness and ability to see

truth spelled out right in front of her

makes the animal she’s tied to retreat

into itself.  She is far from fragility,

but she carries with her this shaky

tenderness of a kiss on her cracked,

parched lips.  Sometimes she poses her

body to be a statue of a strong Warrior,

or a quiet folded childish prayer on the floor,

other times she is a happy dancer holding her leg

straight up in the air in perfect

symmetry.  Seeking wisdom in

the various postures of the day, she touches

each regret and lets it float by her while

arranging her torso as a crane preparing

for flight.  With a slow inhalation

of the burning of…

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