Young woman old

Who claims this young woman old,

but the time that separates her branches

from your tree,

midnight miracle, pulverized emotions

and fragmented sand clock, that now

is the desert, personal sand pool

with free slivers resting on the skin;

be the wind, cough them out her pores.

Waiting for a ride when she will be published

on both sides of his fallen leaves,

when his kisses will be deeper than Baikal,

pressing her appeased, until flat with her appetite;

he rode her conceiving without the bridle,

heavier then timelessness,

more scarlet than the eyes

of the morning star lacking sleep.

　

Who claims this young woman old,

but the weather in the suede, casting thick pother

over the pond, deception bleached out blond,

hesitation trembling under the ballet of shadows.

Instrumental music lifting the veins

and this time

just a single sight of deaf leading the blind,

mouthing with hands, regarding through a melody;

Absent inside the Baikal, sipping profundity of a lifetime.

copyright, 2010. Tihana Novosel.