the shape of a word
It will never coming-into-being
I trusted on the blow of the breath west
on the bodyless sound
on the sag of the sad sand
I was so meekly wrong
Strolling my interest
drifting my will
sinking me in my third eye
...so slow, deep, and hard
Now a long way of point in suspended
illuminated by incandescent asterisks
just a map of errors
a longin in ashes
just replaceable, as everything without flesh
No hay comentarios:
Publicar un comentario