My hands are autumn. They pray outstretched,
dream birds or maybe guys making off
with my sadness on their strong shoulders.
I do not like them. Darkness falls of irises
and outlines the final touch on the skin
and pentagram of love words seeps
into the mist and smell of love.
who some call the Lord threw me his curse:
to fall as a heap at the hands of the night
and to speak with unicorns. It does not get better.
On the contrary. I caw. And my verse caws.
I lost silence in constant pursuit of ghosts.
The sunset melted, flowed like rain
and there was light even for thieves of love.
They are strange. They refract faith and inspiration
and leave me empty. Now I will cast all clovers and horseshoes
and my hands will be spring.
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