The roses are brown and dry, dead in the summer
 The roses are brown and dry, dead in the summer stories
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alphasid
alphasidCommunity member
Autoplay OFF  •  2 months ago
A poem of feelings of doubt

Source: From my notes

The roses are brown and dry, dead in the summer

A that negates,

Callous and contentious, but always I

Will consecrate your body and my doubts

Copiously growing with every centimeter

That divides our beds. My compunction asleep and awake, in that space of silent

Storm of toughts. Why do I feel

Predict and project

A cataclysm. Staying or leaving, silence.

It is not of what you don't give me, more

A question of what I don't want. I don't ask

Is it a myth that comunication is a key

Deus ex machina

But I don't believe. Either I ask or a stay tacit,

Silence.

Your vis at the light of your phone, peaceful, the sound of your hands playing with your toenails

My face onto you, and on this screen, tyiping

We're in silence. 32 degrees at night, no stars beyond the roses.

My dimmed lights illumate these couple of sentences.

A negates, the desires that I don't know

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