I leave. Before
I shave.
Hands like silence.
Binoculars too.
No round trip.
In the dark.
Flowers like abandoned mortar.
I step with handsome dynamite.
At last. Poem verses
Poem.
I walk in the lyrics
Of burning throats.
Before I brush.
I leave. Before
I shave.
Hands like silence.
Binoculars too.
No round trip.
In the dark.
Flowers like abandoned mortar.
I step with handsome dynamite.
At last. Poem verses
Poem.
I walk in the lyrics
Of burning throats.
Before I brush.
