Poezie
About angels, again
1 min lectură·
Mediu
puerile this need to
try getting into the
smooth core of all things
there where into only the great absent
has inserted an essence
always more immaculate
than a winter morning
on an endless field
I take a closer look
the eye turned, the heart scared
the white sharpness of silence
cannot rip precisely
and all that remains is
an unsettling, but orgiastic
loneliness
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