There is no naming for it (please define me no speaking of evil),
No absolution, no mercy of accurate science.
Battles inside us are always unseen and uneven,
Mine leave inside me an absolute radio silence.
Then I translate it, transmit it (that's how I am wired).
It outbreaks, outbursting inside me with flares.
Doings worth living leave us exhausted and tired,
Measuring life in deciphering more than one dares.
My hands are stone cold, they are icicles craving for meltdown:
Ever-frost loneliness, evergreen branches of hope.
Beware of your wishes, heavy lie all shiny crowns,
I wanted some space and got galaxies beyond my scope.
Some are made shiny and sparkling like spritz or champagne,
Others are born into cold, onto high peaks of soleness,
Always in doubt, with their hearts not in place and in pain,
Never abandoned by god, ever blessed, never soulless.
It
© Copyright: Анна Рорк, 2017
Свидетельство о публикации №117032601256
Свидетельство о публикации №117032601256
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