From dust thou art come,
to dust thou shalt return,
The black-ennui radiates through matter:
without compassion, without distraction
and without acceptance,
Dust gathers in corners,
forming the contours of a death god,
Dried blood on linen—the only whisper
of times long past,
Obsessed with the theory of black holes,
I could use one in my storeroom,
A parody of equality—
one must be healthy in order to be ill.
Fri vers (Fri form)
av J. Herward
Publicerad 2025-03-12 15:07