Le paradis n'est pas artificiel …

July 21, 2014


Through the broadest of panes
it's overexposed monotone
outside. I bare my teeth to the sun,
wind, irreducible terror:

its overexposed monotone
tremor. I drink to match,
wind irreducible terror
in my hands for the spirits

tremor. I drink to match
with one last glass, spilt
in my hands for the spirits.
I smooth my face

with one last glass spilt.
I am alone and
I smooth my face
with palms of sadness.

I am alone, and
those who I disdain,
with palms of sadness
emptied out: dead things.

Those who I disdain
lay ruin. I am afraid to.
Emptied-out dead things
burn and salt the fields,

lay ruin. I am afraid to
live; things haunt me quietly,
burn and salt the fields
I wander, my dreams' singing; while

live things haunt me quietly
as our darkest deeds.
I wander my dreams singing, while
all hope has remained unseen.

As our darkest deeds
have been watched through keyholes,
all hope has remained unseen
through the broadest of panes.

Posted by Delire at July 21, 2014 01:56 PM