Ves (lovemuffin15) wrote,

  • Mood:

There's no way to explain it. This coil.

Into two, we diverge

From eight fish, the foundation for a thimble, pours
heat, a fist, relaxed, mediated
so the ground can stand firm upon kneaded time,
a misappropriated wealth of even the wrong kind of passion
the fire whose flame never reaches the catch despite all,

reverberating sounds of a dying man, gasping,
demanding for air and all things abundant, in order
to fill his wicker basket he will do anything,

from eight seagulls, the crane and a snake
we make ten first hand excuses to legitimize
being carried away by our lust and instinct,
forced to empty the cardboard box of guilt and hatred
containing all we've ever felt, and deemed unnecessary.
  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your IP address will be recorded 

    When you submit the form an invisible reCAPTCHA check will be performed.
    You must follow the Privacy Policy and Google Terms of use.