In this quiet town,
down the unknown lane,
in the broken bricks and stone—I will disappear.
The green birds will turn grey—
In the mist of sorrow,
In the dance of death,
In the laughter of the ruthless.
And I will flee.
I will flee in the wild search of comfort,
and reach to the false shade of black—
Where the plumeria burns,
Happiness runs
away, away from all—and I remain missing.
YOU ARE READING
the slow art of breathing bitter
Poetryslow dancing love and pain in the midnight chorus of liquor-washed autumn green ... || a constellation of destructive poetry ||