Night breathed,
sweet enough for me to think
that I wasn’t hearing
sirens.
Death’s attention,
spent this hour elsewhere,
while I lived the lie of
flowers.
"I write, I voice, I am."
"I write, I voice, I am."
Night breathed,
sweet enough for me to think
that I wasn’t hearing
sirens.
Death’s attention,
spent this hour elsewhere,
while I lived the lie of
flowers.
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William S. Friday
“Death’s attention, spent this hour elsewhere” Love this, and let Death spend many hours elsewhere.
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Oh yes. This one.
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Beautiful.
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