by Olivia Chohan '20
On May 22nd you grew two feathery wings.
We were clueless, far away, safe, dry.
There were seeds of hope but they were never planted,
because they were shadowed by a tree of worry.
Instead of black, I stood in pink.
Some days I want to bury myself in sand,
Or to climb a tree and never come down.
All man has is hand and foot;
a heart of granite, tears like the Ganges.
We are small.
What gets burnt does not grow back.
Anonymous / 12 That last day I walked those halls, I memorized, in my head, every sight and smell -- Stored it like a sacred star. And saw those vested men from afar As they began to crush and fell Th
Hannah Myers / 10 (BARE staff) I walk into the Ohio feather-leafed forest, my feet crackling with each step, the dead bodies of old green lying on top of moist-gut soil ready to be decomposed into dir
Jack Son / 12 The shape of water geometric automation of fluid vested upon all but itself unveils workings of gaia beneath and reflects essence unseen Geometric fabric of tao threads fates of predeter