Ada Ionescu

I crave for a newborn eye to proofread the coming winter: simple possibility of seeing the star. Unable to foretell the unseen, I trust the unworthy. Prophecies of the emptiness arouse. Fast

Brick wall solid Monday leaking from a beheaded rooster’s neck. My father always failing to protect the safe-glass. Fake black mastering the bridges. I search for a shape to resemble. Fasting

The forbidden oblivion is wiring chains behind the eye-lids. Achilles’ imperfect body revenges upon the humble glory of the blade. Leave me your feelings’ disjoint corpse! It deserves a tender

Tangled, defeated happenings: your fingers on my thoughts’ skin, uneven love song smashing the dim, inner dusk, the Sunday morning innocent smile. Longing I survive the unspoken winter’s