"lacrisomo" poems
The time we met would be
allegro, a boisterous time when
I unlearned how to
breath. It became an
allegretto, the
crescendo long behind,
awaiting the
diminuendo with an
alto near the end. It
was like all great
compositions,
feverish until the
fall and
when we fell, oh
how we tumbled,
mesto,
lacrisomo,
con dolore.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 11:50 AM UTC