Absinthe Poem by Alyce Crowley
Absinthe
She's pale like death or moonstars...
I wonder if she was born of dark or light?
They call her Winter...
Becuase her kiss will be your last.
And I survived and tasted another.
'Stupid girl, ' she snarled. 'I am Absinthe.'
I staggered back, dead inside,
Reeling from the reality of your
Hate
And I wonder...
Will I ever be sane without my absinthe?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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8/6/2026 11:31:57 AM # rel_20260806T081513Z_580e7f4
nice poem. do you mean absinthe as in the alcahol or the hallicination of reality Later... Isaac