The fine bones
or massless silences
the careful chasms,
how the dark
glass in me weeps.
This foreign, conscripted scene
and no thing:
the sempahores, indecipherable
and closing in the whorl between us.
This final, fracturing sorrow.
Posted on 07/07/2005Copyright © 2020 Marina Dawn
Sounds sad.But how does one become with a scene so alien.
How does one become one, I mean.