Nomadic at the boundary between tide folds and light scabs, etching the silver spots of time with the undertow. The prophecies of salt crystals dwell in the folds of each page. Love is a feeling like bone china, with phosphorus fire cracks gouged out by the tide. And life is like fishing for the shadow of the moon on a hanging thread, letting the incompleteness ferment into honey on the thin blade - all the dark sides of annihilation will eventually be forged into the sound of bronze tide by poetry.
Purpose: Anthology