My Thistled Thoughts

Poetry // Prose // Personal Passages

“What a phantasmagoria the mind is and meeting-place of dissemblables! At one moment we deplore our birth and state and aspire to an ascetic exaltation; the next we are overcome by the smell of some old garden path and weep to hear the thrushes sing.”

— Virginia Woolf, Orlando: A Biography

Latest from the Blog

nawayee : a poem

…like my own temple,
withering away
over many a day…

Blood in Winter

Entwined branches of
birches in the distance
are guardians of
the white fields

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