SpringI hung my hopes up on a rope and round that rope I sing,
round my praying hands, like a rosary they hang, in the sweet air of spring. They swing.
Building momentum, these moments that flicker and freeze like a reel of old film, preserved poorly in the dirt, clung to some hurt, from burying it deep with a few sins.
Evidence of your presence, I press my lips against the screen, as my breath beads and drips i drink it in, each sip a momentary blip.
I would have lived there, in that moment, hung myself from that rope, in the sweet air of spring.
Poetry by stef lai
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Written on 2019-07-28 at 18:08
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