The Wood I am a real person And everything known to me has a colour. The sun gravitates around me. When I am beautiful In my collected tears grow forests. Photo: Maria Butunoi 51.682931 -2.232238 Share this:FacebookPrintEmailTumblrLinkedInRedditPinterestPocketTelegramWhatsAppSkypeLike this:Like Loading...
Post Scriptum Sometimes I think I’m made of words And not of flesh A poet eating ice cream On a tree leaf But other times My very flesh will make the words Which float like water grains On wooden tables. 51.749067 -2.228875 Share this:FacebookPrintEmailTumblrLinkedInRedditPinterestPocketTelegramWhatsAppSkypeLike this:Like Loading...