Annalise Wellman

You can write them with rich ink, a decent pencil, or a stray piece of lead They can etch long legacies, They can make no sense. They start with a single letter until a tale starts to unfold They may end in a heroic veil or in the bottom of a trashcan, damaged and lost…

Like needles ripping through silk gauze, Like a piece of tissue paper- catching fire and shriveling into dusty ash There’s no point in remediation a hole will be burned There’s no point in peace, just to run it through with a hammer The ashes won’t fill my ears It won’t muffle the sounds They fall…