Friday, 26 August 2011


A spell of words is like a strain on the wrist. And here I hang like a dead apple from the tree and all I get is the sour puss from your lips. Because all I know is the desperate taste from your lingering words like it was nothing more than a fake Valentine, my love, a fake Valentine, and your skin was rotten from the lies.

So tell me now, from all the twists and turns, from everything, you believed to be true, how can your sour puss be pushed into the cabin of lies where we once fell upon... your spell of lies,

amongst the turn, when our lips kissed the sides of lust?

And I hold your intimate life of all when we fell once into something we could not


a purity, when we knew of nothing, when

we knew and do now know that nothing is the truth,

how can you hold me and think your head is on the poison stake,

when all is but what,

and all is but is,

and I ask you now,

you curse me from within...

A flower once told me
I fed her life;


with every spill
of water,
the answers
to life are

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