then suddenly a great fatigue
that falls on the head
like the evening light
waiting for the lighthouse
to pierce it with a great flash of light
*posted in July 2021, edited in July 2022
Every Sunday at seven o'clock, turns the crank of the dream machine: what happened, or what will be happening, what could be, and there we go, exaggerating the colors and the smells, the intensity, the emotions, before we come back on earth (not that we ever left, it was all in the mind)
like the ropes
that wear out without breaking
let time takes its course
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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