t all ends up just south of heaven,
surrounded and trapped in venom
a man was slightly shaking – death
the father crawls in silence, stealth.
to hop onto a train, in hurry to escape
from the routine consuming, invade
the depths of human soul, the corners
of their minds and alters of the owners.
something from the shadow bothers.
it's apathy and trembling – mothers
of my conscious, and them i don't control,
hence on my back with blood they'll draw.
i'll bury my Self beneath the sun and clouds
of sheep and lambs that make no sounds,
that slowly waltz above the skies of blue,
and who, once i'm dead, will deeply mourn.
death of conscious
© Copyright: Матвей Стрелок, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125032606458
Свидетельство о публикации №125032606458
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