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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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