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*

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