TeklaRiver

you say there are only two types of cold: in one a shadow hangs on your bones like an old ghost; the other is a color, or stillness, or both. even now, part of me still melts in the summer months, part stays green year-round: come, see the bitter artist at work say how’s that for a show? look at the sky bleed into the horizon, how the peaks cry and carve the earth with their guilt; say here, we are all running from something, land of lost boys, gone chasing clouds only to end up in smoke. say, how’s that for a show? see how lonely can look so beautiful with the lights on, when the ice has receded and the ground has begun