...

3 views

Honey for the Wounds
I pour honey over these wounds slowly,
sitting beneath this ancient, knowing tree.
The bark whispers secrets softly to me,
old stories of longing, lost and holy.

The moon becomes a friend, bright and aglow,
speaking in a language I nearly grasp.
It listens to my words, my every gasp,
while knowledge stretches long in its silver show.

Honey drips down my fingers, golden, thick,
like the moon’s light pooling...