will see your struggle
end of day
pass to the midnight
fly away
the bird in shadows
what a shame
construct obsession
on the way
the clockwork whispers
not yet, stay
but every season’s
built to fray
its wings are glue
its song - your name
a folded map
no coordinate
the river’s answer
just decay
a hollow chorus
leads astray
the hands keep turning
price to pay
while all your embers
turn to grey
the moth in amber
starts to pray
for any ending
but the same
these coded whispers
burn like braille
a ghostly north
with no terrain
no terrain
© Copyright: Марк Евстафьев, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125050806990
Свидетельство о публикации №125050806990
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