Wind Son
Wind Son
They
arrived,
invaded
blood
smelling
like wet feathers.
You feed
fear
and
loneliness
as if they
were
two small
animals
lost in the
desert.
They’re
here to burn
the
Age of Sleep.
Your life
is a constant
goodbye.
You hold on
like a snake
that’s only itself
when
there’s nobody looking.
You cry, open
the jewelry
box
of your desires and you’re
richer
than night.
But there’s so much isolation
that your
words commit suicide.
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