I’m too serious of a lier
to be taken seriously.
I don’t understand,
and that’s a confession.
My ideas are almost
almost always
about love.
Burn your tongue,
you don’t even know what that means.
Child, she wishes under her breath
to a portrait.
She sees someone unfamiliar;
A catapulted story
sent over a bridge that’s
loosing it’s sacred foundations.
I dream about burnt nun’s
resulted from a war.
I am identifying bodies.
They are all so small
and still dressed in ashy nightgowns.
The smell is repulsive.
And the sight is
honest;
In all it’s disgusting truth.
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