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suicide poetry

pourquoi sont les choses qui n'ont aucune mort
quelque part j'ai lu un conte étrange, vieux, rouillé
quand vous venez ce soir
ne soyez pas faux
j'au-dessus-avais préparé l'événement
trois jours je les ai entendus s'affliger quand je m'étends complètement
voici ne tomber aucune lumière
l'air est plein de l'aube et du ressort
je vais ma manière complacently
dans la terre silencieuse
les jours hypocrites

 



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