1 march 2018

poetry

Post Scriptum
Post Scriptum

breathe

she smelled like fear and forget-me-not
the day I questioned my own egsistence  
burried deep under her delicate skin

reincarnated silence of our thoughts
turned night that gave birth to wolves 
into a dreamless falling
 
i woke up the sun on the ceiling
 just in time for last words 
allowed by the hangman

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