Christable Anon started with a riddle that she was told, is a poem when she was in class III as sudden as one mad afternoon menstrual start. And then she realized she has to walk miles with words. She ventured impulsively, honestly, true to the sensibilities of her surrounding, and unaware of time and event she grew up along with her poetry. Works here are evidences of her makeover; few dedicated few self-explanatory.
You will not find poetry anywhere unless you bring some of it with you. Joseph Joubert
Friday, November 27, 2009
The first few days the river is bright red and then grief coiled in dead cells pull out like a white print the skull then winds the spool ofundisturbed note for the remaining.