Wednesday, February 3, 2016

The Black Island

Shivering, we cling to life and fear to fall.
The poet received the news of the coup,
Went to hospital and was declared dead.

The rocks give way to the waves all the time.
The bedroom overlooking the loud surf
Is kept as beautiful as it can be,

Probably more beautiful than the day
It was left forever by its owner.
No owner ever existed, no words.

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