A bohemian moon
was following me,
playing in the hands
of dark night.
Man's marrow, the
essence of truth,
drips from the wordless
poem.
Hanged from the
gate, a wreath of capsicums
and citruses to ward off
the evil eyes.
You avoid the debate.
I wanted the perfect answers.
Wearing a hawthorn crown
does not make a Christ.
Every religion has its own pain.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 9:06 PM UTC
A bohemian moon
was following me,
playing in the hands
of dark night.
Man's marrow, the
essence of truth,
drips from the wordless
poem.
Hanged from the
gate, a wreath of capsicums
and citruses to ward off
the evil eyes.
You avoid the debate.
I wanted the perfect answers.
Wearing a hawthorn crown
does not make a Christ.
Every religion has its own pain.