and you knew that the blue that was behind the clouds would not come bac,, that all the little cotton buds that were getting close to one another with some sort of joy would make you shiver, and then would drench you, but you would keep on being in awe.
Of course, there would be traces
of passers
lost on the dunes,
one we cannot always be with on their own
but they would have come, and would
have gone and now I would be alone
with the sky and promises
of thunderstorms
in the cold sand of May.
Focusing on the clouds,
too tired to measure up
against the world
then what the hell would Jung say
seeing our nauseating debacles
Un blog experimental voue a la poesie du quotidien sous toutes ses formes/An experimental blog devoted to poetry in all its forms
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