Monday, 23 May 2016

I wrote this eight weeks ago when I killed the past (The Last Poem Wasted on You)

but lustful,
your hands grazed me
and I
– fool that I am –
bloomed under your touch.

Spirals and whirls cloud our skies now.
What wouldn't I give
to give you eyes
without bleeding pupils.

Extinguished, anguished, relinquished
I shed nothing
I will walk into the chaos
but my free spirit will guide me
Please proceed,
your indifference is a mere scratch.

(c) Jean-Francois Painchaud

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