Literary Asthma



















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[original pic here http://browse.deviantart.com/?q=choke&order=9&offset=168#/d2d462v - a little manipulated by me].


Death to the poet.
Half words in between
ashes of strangers'
sweat,
there,

lies her tomb.

The crumbling
cultured posed
falling off
a white horse,

its hair fluttering
with the breeze.


The poet has no air,

cum
Pale & in Absolute
porcelain.

The poet is dead.

Blood
until the color red
read finally dead.

One less poetential.
What's the use of sun
when it's always covered
on clouds?

1 comments:

bulmaro said...

Very nice.. Raff.. =) wuv yah gurley =)

DU

 


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