Looking back at self-portrait
was bewitching.
Self-abuse? Do you think
we should start preparing for a
holy murder?
Like bad sex, you hold
a blue thought and pick
up a fight with a radical dialogue.
If birds start leaving, what
you plan to do with contemporary
poetry.
In a locked room you left
your bloody footprints, sometime back.
Now you are caught with a
broken pen. Time was up. Hand
over your lips and become mute.
Comments1
"The misty moon has scattered your shadow over my cage
Watch how this drowned bird would turn into a passionate wave."
That's my poetic answer to your "Visualization"...
I like it.
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