2 lug 2014


Do not try to comprehend,
my dearest Friend - this is the Hell.
All my bruises swell.

I tamed the fire with ice,
my vice. I breath because
the grief withdraws.

On this awkward stage
I cannot play my rage.
Etereal outlines - 
two-faced butterflies

round off my clavicle
and restart the cycle;
chop off any thorn
from my core forlorn.

And I shudder with disgust:
what have I done to myself
to make this mirror my must...

Constantly cold and blue,
I reach out my dazed hand.
Of the way back I have no clue.

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