Mes mots dans ce rêve.

The likeness of snow-covered heaps on desert-searing nights
Of a scathing wind that cursed a name and brought it
By the crook of a deserted nest sunbathed by bare hands,
Seducing a whistle to the primeval waters that shoehorn rocks
Reflected with an awakening flutter within a cold room
With lip of ice and loitering hill sides by a pale tide,
blistering with mercy;


Originally posted on Poems & Equality:
Word count: 145 Warning: A lot of sadness Silence. Silence is golden, Silence is precious, Silence keeps me safe. My mind is a void, An overflowing, overthinking Boisterous void which comforts me, Consoles me,…

A Northern Wind.

I kneel towards thin estuaries and darken the shawl with pearls
The northern river kneels, beating pearls,
As the shawl darkens in the ghoul of silence in the wind.

The Fall of Patois.

For that estuary wept, with its mouth tapering,
Tapering into wrinkled sheets and disturbing,
Disturbing the transgressions of sense (and sense display us)