virgil

Time has a way of gifting its victories, like sunlit garden kisses, sweet with finally, finally, after an age-long dance of longing.  Time, make me Virgil. See me toil in the soil of words, black with the wet of lands that shallow hands will never know, ever.  Key holder, astral pirate, bring me Keats bones, let me converse with Claudel, how she held the… Read more