12 Degrees & Skiving

what began as year-long challenge has become perpetual until further notice



where the ascent is easier

as ravens’ concentric wheeling

I hear your speech





than the time before

I see you fumbling

bruised, graceful

where I can’t set foot

too hallowed there

for the sharing yet

where Kali, expected,



as Ganga’s source

where quiet is the only knowledge

rationed to me

edging gaunt precipice to

the roof of your world

and whatever void you choose beyond

a gouged rent in the floor of my life

a thrips of breeze in the face of Akasha


Tell me wotcha reckon

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poems, prose and pathways

Dasha Maiorova

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