Bites. Wait. Aches. Empty streets. Purposeless cars
I dream with my train. Beauty in bottles.
I'm tired.
My roles, so worn out, so spent, they sat on the streets at midday
and lost the plot.
Yet I can't just make them go.
I run to cuddle some words, a dragking, an indignation, a baked crumble
But when they ask me where my tears are coming from, I munch grilled peppers
I feel speechless
The words that keep company are rare
- the phrases that have put me to rest have turned fragile.
I count the letters.
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