Names are sometimes
heroes rejoiced in mead halls
whose deeds are sung
and written in annals
sometimes they are
secrets, roaring from
the inside and concealed
in shame and abhorrence
and sometimes you'd ask:
why is every thing assigned
a name, when one day
we'll pass and forget
what they were, and it
is as trivial as forgetting
a person altogether
YOU ARE READING
Albeit flawed,
ПоэзияI was basking under the sun-the waves muffle the sound of my breathing; and I bury myself with cautionary confidence in the sand and with it the memory of your four faces. How can something lethal be life-restorative?
