mort mot juste

agosto 10, 2010


this diverted series of breaths phased out
the occasional red and yellow all that's left of fire
flame's out, yearning's memory's delicate pain
there's nothing to beg for anymore
i could bite my lips to originate some new beginning
ingest brand new worms and drag slowly
this fog, this bird song from stratocaster youths
i could raise this infection and seize the fever
but my guts are cold and there might be nothing left
in love and other follies
for me to cling to

maria 1:24 PM 0 vociferando estavam

ao rés da fala