In the days and nights
of my naiveté, when hope blasted blue in carbon cloud, the constellations stepped out of line, formed new patterns, gave my dreams names that they'd discarded: Pisces, someday she'll adore you, hold your hanging head beside her breast, pluck out poisoned hooks inside your heart. And of love, it lost its battle with beauty, lives on to cut to the quick, chain the soul in heavy iron, to thrash hopelessly, like fish in a sweeping net, then hauled to shore
while salvation ripples beneath, so cold in all its glory.
Andreas Gripp
Andreas Gripp
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