Something you process,
My heart is like a weaponless cage,
I follow the fits of rage,
Intangibly falling out
Of our past.
Something you possess,
A long-long story of hiding places,
Something we aspire for
As a consequence of rat races.
It’s the last.
Something you invent,
A second-hand predition,
I believe in unity of all,
In the latest blink of attention.
After lust.
Автор публикации
Марина Чиянова
Комментарии: 28Публикации: 213Регистрация: 17-10-2021
