We’re sat in clouds,
all around us, gloomy
images of nought, and looming
over houses, empty barrels
on the long forgotten rails.
Over homes, and sacred grounds,
like an undelivered mail’s.
Hear me Em’ly, purifying
airs, difficult, and light,
probing timidly, discreetly
through the vestibules of night.
Clouds never moving boggy
beauty wasted on the careless
non-watchers spent on
lay transfiguration
of the never-changing nothings,
Em’ly dear, wretched creature
blink me out of cloud sleep.
1 сентября 2026 г.
To Emily
© Copyright: Андрей Тюков, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126090107664
Свидетельство о публикации №126090107664
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