Writing

Spines and quills. Tiny hairs. Weave together. Cling together. Making maps of something bigger that I cannot see. Waves. Like the ocean. The..

Richard Bryce was a mystery, He lived on a back street lot, The house was the old half-timbered sort, Paint peeled on the old wainsco..

Sexual In Nature

Taking Up My Rod Use me to Thy will, To gather the sheep unto Thee. Feeding words of love; Let it be. Having given t..

Tags rod