Your soul is dead like a butterfly,
Although its insides are an oblong—
If only you had lived to puberty
(Barely, barely),
Not death, then dust, the weather forecast, the Chronos
would have finished you off. But you
are much closer to the angelic race
than I am to Charon.
What was us was better than what is now,
Straining your eye.
If the boat didn't leak
And everyone wouldn't think: "hallelujah",
Sinking more down than up.
under
© Copyright: Айра Дж Морис, 2025
Свидетельство о публикации №125100808588
Свидетельство о публикации №125100808588
Рецензии