In a moment they were everywhere.
The irregular shapes of cotton-pressed paper dance tauntingly, words spilling like honey from the milk-white pages. The chorus from the buzzing hive of ink hum the scripture of sugary psalms, the love scraps.
“The roots of my hair have grown to carry me this far and all that my spirit has endured is fuel to bring me back home.“
Papers fly and pigs will too when
they don’t look at me with contempt for
what I have accomplished in spite of their
war crimes that go unpunished. Days