I have no fingers to feel with,
no one to reach out for.
My breath comes in little wisps,
pale ghosts telling me
I'm alive.
In the twilight darkness,
my mind is hypaethral,
perhaps even transparent.
Quis operor sequor?
Est is sententia
vel est is flumen in suus tractus??
Lacuna es decessio mihi.
English est haud diutius meus castrum.
(What do I follow?
Is it thought
or is it a river in its course?
The words are leaving me.
English is no longer my forte.)
1 comment:
how forlorn your voice is here.
sadness creates its own energy which can grow to something fierce
imagine
chocolate, cognac and tears
your friend,
shoes
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