paper flag

House of Heart

TheseĀ  hours that

rhapsodize the night

carry the scent of scandal

or the aroma of summer

fruit that fails to ripen.

This fragile nest where we

fly our paper flag seems

nothing more than

spider silk fragmenting.

We offer our hearts to a cold blade,

Plunge blindly from the highest cliff.

We are all sinners, every last one of us; it is only the good in us that wishes we weren't. So don't harm that good, no matter how small.

Art by Angela Taratuta

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