My Thistled Thoughts
Poetry // Prose // Personal Passages
“… every flower seems to burn by itself, softly, purely in the misty beds; and how she loved the grey-white moths spinning in and out, over the cherry pie, over the evening primroses!”
— Virginia Woolf, Mrs. Dalloway
Latest from the Blog
On Maturing
my wrath
drains crimson
down the bath
Moon Monologue
Flashes of lightning
illuminate you,
and I turn away
lest I cry.
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