Under the riddled constellations her muscles are
ruptured
The steps go to the miscalculated address upon the
crumpled postcard
A small chant escaped her mouth
Her tongue rolls, her lips are damp
Showing the modern world a glimpse taste of heaven
Her fingers brush the remnants of yesterday
The seeds yet to grow on tomorrow
What now?
Just another dull van conversation
Or perhaps an encounter
When she eventually feels like coming home
No comments:
Post a Comment