A child of words
spitting on flowers,
God, that haven
I longed for
peculiar belief
and absolution
God, that never came
to me in wake-dreams.
So I wouldnt meet
in apology
or redemption
with knife
neatly gripped
to the wash
of any throat
to my reflection.
I would
vanish.
1 comment:
I thought you said that you were only going to put the worst up here...
Bravo, darling.
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