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erotic poem

tressé et tissé
juste en tant que mes doigts sur ces clefs
le ciel
basculé dans le berceau du profond
elle pourrait l'avoir su en ressort premier
je suis une femme
nous n'étions pas beaucoup
qui appellera le vent
le soleil a fait un pas vers le bas de son trône d'or
bonne femme
la nuit passée la pleine lune a étendu un tissu de blanc
dites-moi pas
ce qui je vous doivent
l'obscurité

 



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  • Art/Culture - Urbanite Baltimore
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