In June the musk of humidity covers every sense of sanity
Every sense of being is lost in the storms of Summer.
Heat makes the sane smell of vodka as they lay in glass beds,
Beds where lovers met in the late night, then slipped away unheard.
Two fortnights blow out wax lights in the coffins of May.
Fire sets fire to the glass coffins of June,
Feeding the frenzy of hidden desires in faith.
The scent of July
(ist eine Anmerkung der Ruine)
Copyright 2004 D. Corey Sanderson (VvTracervV)
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