неделя, 15 март 2015 г.

the lake

the lake swallows me
whole never wholesome

there is a silver-threader night in black water
that exists nowhere else
and is enthralling in its silky shimmer

there are no stars underneath the water bed
yet that is the light my eyes long for most,
the pupil strangled by the iris, shadowed with remorse

here lives peace, in the cold, dead silence of words passed
and the wet feel of cold feverish sweat

where weeds clutch the throat,
      and the throat croaks a prayer
             and the prayer dies
                    for no sound and no air lives under the indigo surface of the lake.

Brighton, 2015

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