Do I climb, Chiron?
to heal my old, open wounds
the Mount calls often
About the Creator
K. Kocheryan
I write, delete, write, and on most days, delete again.
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More stories from K. Kocheryan and writers in Poets and other communities.
She falls and pours
For however long it lasts and speaks—changing, slowing, and growing. Whispering with scent. It encloses the small part of the reality owned and, in a way, transforms or transports on solid foundation, stilling or shaking depending on what it’s made of.
By K. Kocheryan2 years ago in Poets
The Fish Song
The room didn’t smell like disinfectants. Its fragrance seemed light and not overbearing. A soft mixture of lavender and mint permeated the space. No beeping machines or any tubes hooked up to four-year-old Kaleeka. Her cacao skin seemed to glow from the light over her head. The family, save for one and the doctors and nurses exited the room like a trail of saints showing their last vestiges of regard.
By Skyler Saunders7 days ago in Fiction
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