Gord

2020-06-08 05:39 am

No brittle bones, paid for sickness,
For where it goes is nonsense.
Undying, nobody throws spear immortal,
Even if the wind vied in cordial,
Simple wounds seal of licks and moans.
My immortal man made of sticks and stones,
Drowns in cordial, healed by cordial,
Acting cordial among the crude oil.