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I stroll away with my ghosts
on the patio where all the carcass compost
it's the warehouse of my crippled dreams;
fenced-in fathomless obsidian curve ━
here my screams never leave
whispers from the other side,
try to make me believe;
they proffer me deceptive days
of internal tranquility
there's a cursory knocking,
warning sirens that I mustn't misbelieve
the mirage interweaves itself
as I ramble around into the deep
━ strolling around in the
burial ground of what could be
YOU ARE READING
Throes of Spring ✔️
Poezja[FEATURED] godhood is just like girlhood: a begging to be believed
