17 march 2021
A Dying Hymn
Your face had only the
eyes, when you flew backwards,
hovering like a humming bird.
There was no absolute,
hoisting the beheaded god.
In transience I will meet you
in air and shed the body.
In mouth-hole you put
all your wisdom, to bisect the
virgin house. Violence creeps into
the roses. They droop and bleed.
I will talk to burgundy-black
moon, not to leave footprints on
my face. My lips are going to
catch the stolen kisses.
17 march 2025
Eva T.
17 march 2025
wiesiek
17 march 2025
absynt
17 march 2025
absynt
17 march 2025
absynt
17 march 2025
ajw
17 march 2025
ajw
15 march 2025
absynt
15 march 2025
absynt
15 march 2025
ajw