the eternal flame/itch
has been reignited
burning your fingers for an
little invisible someone
i saw a man eat dead vultures
the cool wind and along with it the baggage of the dead
how many gone without even one focusing and seeing
no i mean
actually seeing
solar panels on crying eggshells the poison
everywhere, everyone is
chock full of it
a tower with a mid air
graveyard, a voluntary service for souls who don't want to anymore
[the hindus and the christians and the buddhists and the muslims and the animists and the syncretists were all right]
sandpit and buckets of sand
for that eternal flame/itch
its getting colder by the second the warm afterglow of you makes my existence
my blubber and hibernation
diapause, immortality
i'll live with the cold and i guess i'll write you letters
that will slowly burrow into the
permafrost and one day when you return, maybe to some freshly chopped and chiselled pieces
you can read them. maybe you'll send me answers or maybe you'll not
your magnitude cannot be fathomed
green grass[why?]
red sunset[why¿]
(you know why)
but do you really know
have you ever known
maybe you can
never
know
YOU ARE READING
Revèuse
Poetry"Everyday we prepare a face, to face the faces we must face." TS Eliot this book will never end, it's a way for me to keep pieces of me safe.
