Pan-de-muerto dough ferments and stickles.
Shut down your eyes as if a hospice entry.
The stained glass sea of your surrounding’s fickle.
I still can taste the words’ lip-crafted painting,
become a drawing of your son to tickle
in colors images and call the world “Eccentric”.
Red always comes to love, and black is brickle
for children whom a night took for its wren trip.
The silence under heels is loose and stretchy,
though not the old parquet, but throat is hurtful
by barely swaddled wail while verve is ebbing.
What is an illness trend the mind is catching?
All vivid strokes of brush strike like a bird fall
with angel ticklishness and snowflake webbing.
February 16, 2011
Sonnet XXII
© Copyright: Юрий Лазирко, 2011
Свидетельство о публикации №111021608019
Свидетельство о публикации №111021608019
Рецензии