The Solitude
of We
In this everlasting
summer’s
land, I look
over the rocks and sea, only to become filaments of my own tabular meanings
Despair is a
letter we’ve written
So often
forgotten, so often echoed through
Ocean tides,
sunken gardens
In solitude
we breathe
in
in-between
as I swallow in, then out, my hunger of you slithering the creek under a gravity
tar zone, where faith deplumes its nihilist words with butterfat-flies,
tomorrow
I shall pray
for a raise of
latitude
Today, we
languish.
© 2014, José Eduardo Coelho
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