The thin, flat, little black book sat unassumingly on the shelf. It hardly made the effort to capture my attention. Maybe because it was the new kid on the block stuck between other glossy peacocks or maybe it was the hard to distinguish title, a title that said, whoever composed what lay between the unassuming covers traversed the same mental space I did. Yeah, that was it, the title. I read the title, snickered and then delved between the covers.
It was a trip!
Sadly all I have is a brainfull of over used words to explain to you the psychedelic, emotional, visual, sensational trip, so I’ll use them
ASHES was supposed to be just another poetry book, but It wasn’t, at least for me. It kept playing with my OCD. (Ok I’m segueing here, get back on track Glen, follow the notes)
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