The sound of the sun
Grilling lightly my eaves,
Candent words are revealing my mind,
Like a tailspin opening cans
Injuring briefly
Till I'm so blind;
The sky bloomed for its beauty
And hills are stains.
Unhold the duty
The sky is dead, the biggest spot,
Stabbed by sore rains,
They lick the rot, they lick the rot.
The sound of the moon
Hasped against the brazen shine,
It's eager to blind me soon,
You see it's not a restless shrine,
Like a gullible pup
Howling for you.
I shut my eyes, I do
You all want me to do.
The sky is dead, you've read above,
And hills are stains,
They all do rove, they all do rove...
Blind
© Copyright: Ксе Васильева, 2015
Свидетельство о публикации №115010600403
Свидетельство о публикации №115010600403
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