Poems from Siberiantigers
I am a Photograph
I am the slip of paper on the top shelf,
The blotch of color in between slabs of plastic,
The secret behind glass.
I...
She died.
Spoilers aside, her death was not the conclusion nor climax of the story.
It was the beginning of a cyclic swoop.
To him, time...
Dear Middle School Me,
There is often a time where a crosswalk will appear.
It is never in the same location, but it leads to the same...