The crisscrossed roads met,A jagged edge, a corner of respite. The earth had worn, Many a tales of weary travellers The color the soil was blue, A mixture of happy cyan tales, Some magenta dark, despair ones. The core emanated a stench Not an odour, a kind of recollective narrative. To remind you of the histories Those written and unwritten Those with a past and no future.
608 A LINDQUIST HALL
Wichita 67260
mythili.menon at wichita.edu
Your Custom Text Here