It's almost summer, but I remember
a warmer December, than May of this year.
It's drizzling ghastly, and strollers fastly
more leastly, than lastly absorb the drear.
Just heard the news, that you will get married.
Be gracefully carried in hands downstairs.
It's hard to tell, if I'm crying from laughter
or merely after: "Who the fuck cares?".
I will remember, that back in summer,
in tired slumber you planned your crash.
Still angrily care about being your maven,
me, somewhat unshaven, reality splash.
To The Bride
© Copyright: Артем Хабипов, 2017
Свидетельство о публикации №117052308942
Свидетельство о публикации №117052308942
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