Zywa
Sharazed (1)
My diary is too honest
to keep, what's the sense
in reading myself unhappy
and puzzling my head off
over covered terms, peering
what yet can be seen
through the frosted glass, shadows
which I trace with clear lines
of later. It easily looks
like real, a few lines are enough
for a snowy landscape
that I can make thaw
by continuing to draw:
another page, another day
written to my life
blossoms written
on my path full of thorns
in the ghost house
of my body
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