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death poem

was es die gesagten Maschinen war
ich bin vom Sein bitter und träge vom Sein klug träge
Bonbon mit Farn und stieg
es gab ein strangeness auf Ihren Lippen
als ich war, lief London ein
so verloren
das traurigste des Jahres
bis zu ihrem Raumfenster
ca. beschwerte sich zum Meister
was spiteful Wahrscheinlichkeit unawares stiehlt
Melancholie, Blau war sie
drehen Sie nicht Ihren Kopf
dieses Jahr

 



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