Like a provocation in the middle of the night,
when you long for sleep — extinction comes.
Like a provocation in the middle of this fight,
when you long to keep vigil
through the drumbeat,
you watch the tremors, you feel the heat
cutting into the depths of exponential maturations.
On the top floor, our bare feet —
as you try to take off again,
while the smoldering graveyard of dreams,
this wingless, haunting land-plane,
reeks of burnt feathers.
We wait at the starting line
for a shower of rain —
or sunny weathers.
THE COMBUSTION
Poetry Cycle by LDK
No. 3
The sound of rain
© Copyright: Ленка Кроупова, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125062306254
Свидетельство о публикации №125062306254
Рецензии