My blood, blended with the autumn water,
Has flowed to gutters and then to a sea.
I’m yearning for love. I’m ill with hangover.
I live as a bare disfigured tree.
I live step by step according to purpose,
Perform a wrong program and read sad poems.
My brain is crammed with integrals, schemes.
My heart is poisoned by a lying caress.
I’ve drunk the glass of loneliness beyond measure.
I’ve found only anguish in lackluster dregs.
In the blazing dark city I’m a fatigued prisoner.
I’ll never escape, I’m still alive nonetheless.
Hangover
© Copyright: Александр Смирнов 2, 2009
Свидетельство о публикации №109111902823
Свидетельство о публикации №109111902823
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