Hating it makes me breathe thistles and good luck charms
in broad daylight...
the supple damnation of frank discretions
swelter in the fevered jeer of introspection
after dark.
I loath the thing that brought you here but haven't the faintest idea...
laughing at my paranoia, you can drink pianos
and sever the cut
from the knife
howling for constellations
between
the market
of the
blind
and the
free
light
you can count on something, haunting your nothing
and the clouds
leave you rain
enough
to cry.
Posted on Thursday, July 08 @ 20:56:59 CEST by patricia
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