My blood has been restored,
To its numinous swaying;
In my bedroom,
I hear a nymph's whisper,
Succumbing,
Before my thinness,
And there isn't any stone,
Getting into my shoe,
To make me walk lamely,
Towards an abandoned house;
A mouth tastes a hieroglyphic elixir,
In which the Pontifex writes his prophecy,
To pink kores,
And the Moon bathes herself,
In such a blue oil;
The body has been made,
To express a God's delights,
In which my ears draw,
A violet warmth,
To reflect my anima's words;
How much longer will we still crash our faces,
Into a drying lake? .-
For denying our inner song is,
Like scratching off a golden coin.
May 6, 2020
May 6, 2020 at 3:53 AM UTC
My blood has been restored,
To its numinous swaying;
In my bedroom,
I hear a nymph's whisper,
Succumbing,
Before my thinness,
And there isn't any stone,
Getting into my shoe,
To make me walk lamely,
Towards an abandoned house;
A mouth tastes a hieroglyphic elixir,
In which the Pontifex writes his prophecy,
To pink kores,
And the Moon bathes herself,
In such a blue oil;
The body has been made,
To express a God's delights,
In which my ears draw,
A violet warmth,
To reflect my anima's words;
How much longer will we still crash our faces,
Into a drying lake? .-
For denying our inner song is,
Like scratching off a golden coin.
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