Leafy Bones

Monday, 23 January 2012

The letter to Oz

Fear is love
and there is nothing more ferocious than the creature herself.
Listening quietly and glazing politely
wishing crooked smiles on the windowsill,
enraptured fingers hovering over your desolate skin.
You loose your mind
it'll never come back,
not without the rats and worms.
Living with new memory
speaking, running, understanding
loneliness and fear.
Fear the affair that casts your endless sleep,
how I wish the kitten would lick my wounds once more.
The empty pit of conciousness
I know that of wrong
but I wish it right anyway.