This is a place where words have teeth, hearts have wings, and nothing stays ordinary for long.
I think of poems as little spells: some stitched from stardust, others soaked in tea and memory, a few with goblin fingerprints still on them.
They’re for the wistful, the curious, the ones who talk to the moon.
Take what speaks to you — and mind the mushrooms.
Life with Tzuri 