a gloom ode to christmas;

when I draw my last breath,
forget the black damp soil
and bury me with snow

for purity stays in death,
and i’ve fought till foil,
seen the scythe and the crow

and like the body beneath
i will leave my turmoil
along with my sorrow

– c.l.

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a recipe;

your happiness should be constructed naturally;

not by demands,
not by expectations,
not by `planned ahead`s.

let it go its way, the way it’s supposed to be.

— c.l.