this year. The fabric torn
still has more forms to push.
Threads of mangled inertia
still pierce the wall of nothingness.
I see my face on the dying side
that the dawn hides.
I view the bloom
from somewhere far away.
If you can see me deep
inside this multiplied ravine, send me
the warmth of an echo, send me
the variance of the marching heart
when it trickles to the outskirts.
No comments:
Post a Comment