The winging of the labalaba to the flames. It's a pull beyond the intellect. Men see death. The moth sees life.
O Consuming Flame, when?
It stirs again.
Whisper your echoes.
Call me into your tongues.
🧘🏻♂️🧘🏻♂️
YOU ARE READING
Bedroom Whispers
Non-FictionThe bedroom holds sacred territory for me. The bed, its altar. One upon which I've offered sacrifices, so many to count and recall. One upon which I currently lay as I once more pay my dues, in taps and clicks. I miss the days when the gods were co...
