Veerle Heyninck Florimond Margriet Poet Personification

Swallows Despair

in the city of strangers I was born and horses 
knew it as the voice of the sad path 
 roads between my fingers befuddled the weeds 
of the cross translating 
the pain he had me the make-up artist of the devil,
 he had black spots on white his skin he had wings of the Swan Lake but he was 
ridden by the thunder
 of his conscience that calls along the swallows despair
 red reins of poverty that are seen and avoided as people in the Dew eat even 
better together
 than to ask advice about the bread that was hooked 
to the moon harsh duvets and puffed
 into the air through his veins from
 meat and withered trees that sparkle 
along the paths of storms that were cuddling on a bed of roses

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