my darling, I cannot
say the sun
stitches into my skin
any more than it does
to the
pale depths of a
forgotten well.
The soup at the bottom
digests itself, and soaks
all stone to wax.
I melt as a stale mess,
as a sallow sigh,
the breath the stones
lose, it rises and
rusts the Earth.
1 comment:
This is beautiful.
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