Wildes Writing

Tim Wildes

is me, without wings nor wax, I’ve taken off the ground not nearly enough to see the overpass of the wine-colored skies; here is my resting place:

self-built. I was promised a sun, though haven’t yet peeked into the realm of institution that would enlighten me so, this peak has been unrealized:

I am too old to move and

I am too young to die.

Art by Sean Bergin