kinnery, twenty summers old. someday, we'll become birds and snowflakes and dandelion seeds, and we'll fly away on the wind like the vagabond souls we are. take my hand.

kinnery@live.ca

lights

it's hard to tell whether
everyone lives in the same moments,
or if each is unique,
reified by interpretations that
aggrandize their significance
and abscond into sheer darkness.
i'm disappointed by my expectations;
when the birds spelled out
"fly away,"
i guess i thought it would be more literal.

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remember that you are beautiful. thank you for your thoughts.