A wassail around the grave
Of the Russian mystic
Lunacy crucified in his eye
I knit a wreath for the vixen
Who was suffocating next to the shaft,
Tearing the grid with her teeth,
Who was breaking the joists,
Eating sonnets,
She rode the Lionโs gate
In a dress with a dรฉcolletage
Cut with her sword and enflamed with her pyre
The heads of the five Mycenaean bulls.
My blindness,
Put me away into wilted flowers
So I repose there
Already my corpse reeks strongly
The one that never dies
Whose wounds were played in the darkness
While unease ripens in the fog
Lulled inside the years
A bloodied sun comes out in the west
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Published by Leila Samarrai
I am a person of Himalayan seclusion, I am Atalanta in vestments of Helen of Troy, for me there is no term (aphorism there is, maybe). Cosmopolitan is too modest word for one who wanders across epochs without the help of the time machine. Some people consider me weird, because usually this is so when they do not understand something or someone that do not represent their existence. I love cats, an animals in general, I like challenges, I am persistent, I am combative (sometimes I can exaggerate in that - in all) If I were stylistic figure my mortal name would be Hyperbole.
Read me. Know me. Conquer me :)
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