It is only the day, there's no need of dismay
As it's getting outside of the oven.
But it's falling beneath, and it starts to unsqueeze,
In your breath that is finally over.
There's no reason to hide, it is either inside
Or annealing the roof of your mansion,
While the aerial wire is requesting the hire
For the words you unwarily mention.
And the pen cuts your hands, and the paper offence
Makes you gasp in your definite forming.
Mirror's holding your face yellow-painted with haze
So you look out despite to a warning.
And you notice the sound, and you cannot expound
Why the trees have been melt into puddles
Many ages ago, through the hue of Bordeaux,
Till it's done with the world and the winds are all blown,
And the sky unavoidably towers.
The landscape of reality
© Copyright: Егор Колесов, 2014
Свидетельство о публикации №114101306935
Свидетельство о публикации №114101306935
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