I once dwelled there, wittingly –
the forest of myself.
Built a garden
behind a dusty wall of brick.
Threw myself at the mercy of the flowers.
Tended their thoughtful soil.
Watered their pensive roots.
A thinking that begins,
not with reason,
that ends,
not with clarity.
I,
a garden of unintelligibility.
A being alone,
and yet, with.
The brick, I now dust.
The wall, an old friend.
//These flowers may be weeds
//Collette Kristevski, 10/2018
*art and words are my own*
There at the table
set with tolerance
You pour peace into my glass,
but I refuse to drink.
You offer me a place at Your table,
but I refuse to sit.
My pride will keep me blinded
to the places set for the entire world.
Hospitality
//Collette Kristevski, 2017
*all art and words are my own*
Beyond the limits of language,
knowledge and sense,
there is the poem.
A secular priest,
drawing ardor from the prosaic
and palpability from the imperceptible.
And in this scrawled confession,
the poet takes penance
from the poem.
//Penance
//Collette Kristevski, 2/24/2019
My head is bowed down,
but not in prayer;
it’s heavy with sanctimony.
Speedily I enter thought –
that untamed forest of brooding, –
where I dwell like a recluse;
an anchoress of devotion,
not to a god,
but to the self;
detached,
not from sin,
but from salvation.
//Hypocrite
//Collette Kristevski, Oct 2018
*art and words are my own*
The monsters we once were
still come out to play.
Sometimes we fail
to keep them caged.
These passions still need healing
in all of us.
//Monsters
//Collette Kristevski, 2018
*All words and art are my own*
Ortho-paradox-ia 