Huddled at the feet of his addled brain,
The poet awakes under blanket of night
From a smothering will to convulsively clutch at love,
His borrowed time winding and
Wilting like choking shrubs
At a river of black waters from swollen eyes.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Video Art And The Decline of “(High)story”?
The word “history” came into being, because our events were told and written down thereafter. Now history is being recorded in images or vid...
No comments:
Post a Comment