love concocts
a slow death. the night
chronic with melancholy.
somewhere in the world
a man, contemplative,
underneath a lasso of light
peers through the window
without a word,
only an insignia.
we are
only
tender bodies
in supple movements
trying to weave out
timid moments
trying to shatter
the inertia
of being
here.
Sep 14, 2015
Sep 14, 2015 at 2:30 PM UTC
love concocts
a slow death. the night
chronic with melancholy.
somewhere in the world
a man, contemplative,
underneath a lasso of light
peers through the window
without a word,
only an insignia.
we are
only
tender bodies
in supple movements
trying to weave out
timid moments
trying to shatter
the inertia
of being
here.
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