i like poetry that overflows you without soaking the page. poetry that wobbles your hand enough to blur words. poetry that makes you look away first, dares you to turn the page to escape its gaze.
climbing down i've noticed that there's little more than shadows and echoes at the bottom of a well. in that dark, handholds could just as easily grab as release. shadows tending to bend upward, relying on fickle seasonal sunshine to rise, give chase to echoes. and the echoes seem to dissolve outward seeking faded freedom in the sky.