you said death is a tiny hole in us
we are not abiding places
I am writing you letters I am writing your letters
A few surviving fragments
you once said I could use your voice
as a deathmask
as a tunnel
as a white long dress
as silence
as mother entering the room
as knife with platic handle useless
as knuckles
as death is a tiny hole in us
and the sun like boat on fire
burning out with both hands melting around my ears
turning my head towards the machines that make machines that make machines
magnifying the white trail of huge animal circling above the half burried doll ruined by rain and the safe smell of deterioration
I can not sense the passing of time
but I can sense your hand touching the sheet of paper as you sign it
and the dark spot between the trees where we meet
and exchange the last colours
Poetry by Ghost of Heino
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Written on 2017-10-06 at 20:54
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