a deviant, delirious discourse on paths and randomness, or how to listen to the certain sound a mitten does on the frosty window of the balcony, in 1902
Glory, the grinding history amended
By a rope and a mouse in memory!
– there, she uttered, falling.
And the air raged by
Like the atmosphere around the storm.
She shrieked her victory
Sleepless and worn,
Her torn face matching
The wounds on her world.
Glory, for each rock
The wretch felt warm on her harmed feet!
Each atom in the sand,
The heavy fluid of her essence,
The taste of life inside her, on my tongue.
Her eyes shut deep in memory blue.
1902 came by and went-
The spent time of a drop of scent
Blushed in the wake of coming true.