Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

September 11, 2007


We drank the silver
off a moth's wings, drowned
in the tea. Bergamot and wing dust,
blood orange and love lust. Feed me
the secret way out, life; teach me
your most delicious antidote,
bitter essence of hope. . .

Posted by Delire at September 11, 2007 01:45 PM
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