https://lucysworkscom.home.blog/
Stare at the ceiling,
I am an afterthought,
dreams cast
forgotten memories
in twilight’s tongue
rivaling alone
the silence of the world
that pretends to be still,
when it’s
fucking not;
I wake in the room alone,
I intend to sleep;
in weakness, the oeuvre is loneliness
as it slips
bloodily on begotten words
undefined
to fragile oaths
in dark’s pariah
in a mistrusted world;
I gorge no more words
from my psyche
but I hunger
and I born
through mind and liberty,
emptiness, rage,
and cooled scars
by disarray, the throbbing
of spring
shamed by the mirror’s
distortion,
shackled to the ebbs
alone
to shadows
to silence in the end;
I gorge no more words
from my psyche.
for more of Lucy, click on over, and over and over again: https://lucysworkscom.home.blog/
image: david sutton
