Sighing, splashing it's crystal at last
Universe goes into dust,
Glued partly of me, made of ill-usive Us,
Breaking down as a glass.
Always loosing that game, how's it called...
"Pile ou Face".
Left-right, dashing aside with anonymous sight.
Left-right, wings fold tight.
Magical rays then bring a cold-cold night.
We are the birds in volcanic ash.
A gulp of light before the crystal splash.
Whole matter dances on a single eyelash.
Birds
© Copyright: Ольга Бестужева, 2016
Свидетельство о публикации №116022407263
Свидетельство о публикации №116022407263
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