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gothic poetry

glass-blower do tempo
veio fazer exame de me pela mão
desolado e solitário
eu estou morrendo
não do mundo largo do todo
com alegria e maravilha
de repente, fora das maneiras escuras e frondosas
talvez não é nenhuma matéria que você morreu
para poder ver cada lado de cada pergunta
seu cabelo bonito
quietamente, com reverance, no awe
eu vim no deserto porque minha alma é athirst
vindo para baixo no alvorecer dos montes windless

 



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