. . . ruminations on the creative process and what it means when your sense of self is upended through a series of small violences capture the mundanity in trudging through a long-term illness.
When they lose their leaves, I can see the crow / calling his friends to tell them I’m awake which means their daily peanuts / will soon arrive on a stump.
I think language will always fail in some ways, that no matter how well we write, the words will ultimately never fully capture and convey an experience.