A poem that should never have been written, and yet it was

I rifled through the drawers of death.

I took back all my letters.

Death she never wrote me back.

She let me hang here ever.

	Martin Mullaney on Salvation history in a nu…
	Julie Fissinger on Salvation history in a nu…
	Julie Fissinger on INRI
	Julie on Advent
	Julie Fissinger on The sun goes down

	Martin Mullaney on Salvation history in a nu…
	Julie Fissinger on Salvation history in a nu…
	Julie Fissinger on INRI
	Julie on Advent
	Julie Fissinger on The sun goes down

Utrecht Journal