True conversion is not the swapping of words, the trading of dogma or the switching of casings that harden the heart. It is when the shells shatter from a swelled heart blossoming that we are truly born again. Read More: Poetry
I have become a caricature of myself. I splash paint at the mirror before me, trying to match its beauty. I am a dove gathering fallen feathers on the moss, trying to fashion wings. I am a fish wearing swim trunks.