(to my Animus)
Every night he comes to me:
I can watch his pale face,
Offering some spicy tea,
Boiled in my fireplace.
I do suffer: who is he?
Maybe, a mistake of mind
Or my silent occult dream,
That was just for me consigned.
We talk much about all -
He keeps misteries of World,
Possibly will claim my soul,
Leaving me, obsessed and swirled.
Off and on my eyes reveal
That he has implicit wings,
Under the facade genteel
Hiding bare tension springs.
Spicy tea cooled down yet...
Desperation on his lips.
Asking me if I forget
Our inner night eclipse.
24.10.2017
He comes to me
© Copyright: Алёна Коркунова, 2017
Свидетельство о публикации №117102409619
Свидетельство о публикации №117102409619
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