marți, 12 iulie 2016

Lady Beatrix’ Hair

11 sharp and the heat is scorching our throats
like Russian vodka
the black threads of my thoughts wind around your finger
and I try to pull you from the dream-state
but your cells scream out of their sheatfish slumber
to let them lie there
so I wrap up and all by myself
tread watchfully through the night veils
amidst little dogs yelping and melancholy thrills of the nightingale
until I eventually manage to push open a window
towards Purgatory

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