Petrarchan for the lost ones

I flipped briskly over faults in virture

in the eye of emerging devastation

i see universes strange perfection

time is still standing to nurture


Take the thoughts, the silent soliders

march in heathlands buried bodies

apar fromt apologetic worries

where peace awfully lingers


Convulsion takes your breath away

clinging to the outer shell of doubt

rats are fleeting age and day

the uproar wells up in a desperate shout

you were aimlessly left about to decay

situtaions unprecedented to scout

Copyright © 2012 by Franziska Dirnberger


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