Annual Immolation
Annual Immolation The sky sat grey and the breeze blew no more than a gust every so often, making my raven hair fly an inch or two away...
she.
SHE. It all began in Akebu-lan Her roots are anchored. Embedded in the African Alisol soil. Her presence. Scarce! Fierce! But... Enriched...
poem: The lable.
THE LABLE. Who am I? What am I doing here?These questions often take a hold of me.Who are they?They lavish the streets of London, cat-walkin
