How to get your endless grace,
whysky-eyed core?
What to do with the caisson disease,
getting sick abysses?
We are submarines, anchors, divers
who lost the shore,
we can get each other easily,
though it isn’t easy.
How to tell you I'm tired of heavy,
drawn-out freedom,
from despair, from pressure
in thousand atmospheres?
Salty love is somewhere hidden
in ocean system,
and sharp blades cutting waves
according to our fears.
How forbid us now become
that fathomless ocean,
one small spiral of sea shell,
high tide whisper.
With no oxygen love comes Fata
Morgana distortion,
we can never come up,
just diving forever deeper.
Count one, two, three... inhale... try to hold your breathing.
Fata Morgana
© Copyright: Мэри Ру, 2018
Свидетельство о публикации №118020904726
Свидетельство о публикации №118020904726
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