Coma Scelesta Poem by Sebastian Priotese
Coma Scelesta
Magma does not burn
fiercer than the spit of my
relatives.
I force-land and the coma of
my halo strokes its fingers
through my white hair.
Burned.
'Lapsi! Lapsi! Lapsi! ' is everywhere,
as if the air itself curses
my course.
Silence falls like gallows -
it's an ocean and my screams
explosions in its depths.
Felo de se.
Thursday, January 5, 2017
Topic(s) of this poem: fall
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5/27/2024 8:59:14 PM # 1.0.0.1119
