The room...
Again...
As a reminder.
It's burned atop my inner eye,
The only window of my mind,
Which's barricaded from inside,
As if I have something to hide
Except that there's no more light.
No tribal fire is in sight.
Only the memory of torches in the night.
The hungry dogs...
The angry mob...
Whose pieces i'm stitched from.
Those days my skin was like a chrome.
Those days I had a skin.
2016
***
© Copyright: Денис Бурдейный, 2016
Свидетельство о публикации №116071107265
Свидетельство о публикации №116071107265
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