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
Copyright © Veerle Heyninck Florimond Margriet | Year Posted 2011
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