It starts in smoke...

Then moves back and forth between this world and the next, delivering bottled messages of your sins and mine. It blesses the water, dreams of sanctuary and pens poetry of tenacity and grit. It moves through time, communes with spirits long since past, and plays hopscotch in rhyme formation. It scrawls in the margin. It kisses the flowers in spring, and makes mirrored images of your fellow man. It's honest in its blasphemy, bold in its audacity and ends in a place like home.