SHE is young.
The one who roams amongst pink roses, oh crush
oh must of doves; the fortress of a high ceiling sun, and then
she speaks through a flute of wild wind and separates the clouds
from the rain.
My skin, my heart, my eyes are filled with cherry blossoms
and only then and only then I realize I am spurting from my heart.
i smell the smell of fallen water as drops upon thirsty dirt;
i hear i feel the thunderous hoofbeats of raging horsemen,
dreams filled with velocities and misfortunes.
i see i see the bloody roses and thorn knives cut flesh
who rides a beast of Love with an apple and goblet of wine
because i am a poet of words and words and emotions
that can never die. Broken wings that are twisted charis
waiting for a winter, and the dead dove, with love.
:: 10.10.2020 ::