"They fall with force,
crush and retreat on our shapes,
them statues of a pale sunset,
shapeless words of a poem
never told or written.
Ashore by the emetic faceless
garden of stones and rotting bones."
"They fall with force,
crush and retreat on our shapes,
them statues of a pale sunset,
shapeless words of a poem
never told or written.
Ashore by the emetic faceless
garden of stones and rotting bones."