A thimble of syllables can be sewn
into a cry, a story, a lie,a vituperation, while
good deeds happen, fade
then quietly die.Heave and convulse against Fate,
in dreams, horror has no sense —no shape to scorn,
least of all, the truth
of teeth and claws,
and a bloody mawthat repeats who you once were,
and things you did it for.
ВИ ЧИТАЄТЕ
Bedtime Prophecies
ПоезіяPoetic perceptions from a dissociative identity poet. Clearing the wardrobe to find a missing ring; found you instead in my discard pile.