duminică, 7 iulie 2013

Scurta moarte. Short dead.

When I paint without sense
You're my eye blindness,
The beautiful paralysis of mine,
Of fingers in another kind,
The laundered fingers of your saliva,
Which adore these stupid jokes
In the lives of all,
You turn me in a cedilla
And I am just fingers like cheap cigarettes...
Of a little sickly child.

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