RHYS SAGE | CREATIVES
I’ve strung these webs over a thousand times
running back and forth, round and round.
But the wind, the rain, the hands of children
tear them down – swindling, dwindling.
Autumn gossamer threads
forming in the mind
cobwebs in corners
but no spider can be found.
I just wanted the world to see,
this twine of me.
It’s times like this that I wonder why
my art is made only to die.
Of course persimmons aren’t trying to taste like apples or pears or a strange mix of the two, or like either of them. Being, tasting like...
We move as one, our bodies intertwine as we do a dance we’re all too familiar with. Your fingers wrap around my neck like a necklace,...
I leap along the sand in my salty, damp swimming costume. The beach is almost deserted and stretches longer than time. I am eleven years...
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