I like it when you argue with yourself.
That's how White Light looks into the eye,
And disappeares again - as for the game -
It washes soul with gold, like in a pan.
And It is flaunting, like a little child,
Having turned out all and zeroed tunes,
And as a film - this movement forth and back -
Gives birth to intellectual breakthrough.
And purity again. Breath of someone:
Not you already, also yet - not you,
Not death but basic principle of life,
As if your dream's achieved and statics - full.
And coldness of a genius chills out.
Then goosebumps-loving courtesies-and shake.
And fire again. Eternal minus-plus.
And outside the window - perfect rain!
White Light
© Copyright: Елизавета Судьина, 2018
Свидетельство о публикации №118051808808
Свидетельство о публикации №118051808808
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