my angels of the street are bleeding.broken flight, they limp toward me,trails of blood-red dust at their feet.
Who is my own true nature?
Anywhen
Inner streams red and greenSitting cross legged out of time
I am a holder of contradictions.When I was opal I could hear them,Singing holy, holy, holy!And my tongue sang alalalah!
Editor Jim McNamaraPhotography John HarcourtModerator Rachel Bonner
Archetypal Review of Culture Vol 1, No 1, July 2010
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