I move forward slowly. I run toward you, Soul, Stumbling, With burning wounds. Life does not wait, Nor does it stop. It throbs and breathes, It surges and nourishes, It sings and dances, But it also flees and dies. And far away, so very far away, Its Canticle is heard, Its Prayer is whispered, And its weeping can be heard. By Emilia Montull Subscribe to: www.zoeinyourself.com

To be prose with music, and not always with linear meaning, nor ever entirely consented. To be verse with a certain sense of the...

Restless, the rattling of doubt on the keys as they strike against the tenacious tips of the fingers. One rests. Yes, whether continuing...

With the ease of one who walks toward the source, I survive almost unscathed each following moment, and so I go on enduring, lasting like...