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gothic poetry

un stylo d'acier
comment j'aidez vers la droite le monde qui tourne mal
descendu Ă  l'aube des collines windless
plantons
course haut-soutenue
ma mère me tortille des roses humides avec la rosée
exister de cygne
ils dans le rassemblement d'obscurité et demandent
éliminer, luttant vainly
une brume entraînait une réduction
je me demande parfois s'il est vraiment vrai
le poing serré simple soulevé et préparent
pourrions nous mais savoir

 



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