one night vortex cold
a tree under streetlight
turned to brass tips
like stars
pointed out on an astrolabe
o Aristotle
or my love
the pain is a crown
can’t you feel
every resemblance on earth as intended
and therefore vagabond?
one night vortex cold
a tree under streetlight
turned to brass tips
like stars
pointed out on an astrolabe
o Aristotle
or my love
the pain is a crown
can’t you feel
every resemblance on earth as intended
and therefore vagabond?