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dark poetry

nous avons aucune honte?
tranquillement, avec le reverance, dans la crainte
hauts murs et énorme
la nuit est foncée, et les vents d'hiver
leurs beaux cheveux
j'ai fait un voeu par le passé, un seulement
il parle pas bien
un orage monte sur la marée
dernier minuit
je secoue mes cheveux dans le vent du matin
elle pourrait l'avoir su en ressort premier
behold je, en mon chiffon, gaze et tresse
avant le saint en bronze solennel

 



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