A poets heart is a mighty city where dead souls reside to compliment the gloomy atmospheric mood. My ancestors were poets too, and their words have skipped many generations to finally reside in my blood. Being one of them was dangerous, it craved solitude, rebellion, eyes so deep that tore apart whatever beauty it beheld. A poets heart is an ineffable grave, where guilt is turned into words, silence into syllables, rage into rhythm, and love into poetry. Like the apricity of the winter sky, a poet bleeds her tears into the skin of her hands, as I look for the language of a scream nestled inside the diaphgram, I find a home, a quiet caligo of impeccable insatia, that can never suffice a poet. So I end up looking for those words in everyone, everywhere to whelve myself of a thirst and of a nefarious desire, to build a world reeking with my ancestors nostalgia.
YOU ARE READING
Moth House
ŞiirCorpses of words which had been dead for a long time. Where Home eats her own existence and memories float like dust in the air, with dangerous nostalgia
