I pack my crazy little L
In the metallic solid box.
Reserve was drained, and I have fell.
My soul is flying down on rocks.
The L is thorn in my affair -
My business crashed, my nerves yell.
A Glass cut throat of the air.
This glass is mirror of my L.
It spotted soul in fleshly hell.
It was a source of the destroy.
I would inject my sword in L,
But I belong to her, like toy.
The shadow killed me when we met,
And it reminds me of her smell.
I'll try to bury and forget
The solid box with crazy L.
Andrey V. Zakharov (28.07.2010)
L
© Copyright: Андрей Захаров, 2010
Свидетельство о публикации №110091003263
Свидетельство о публикации №110091003263
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