#270 (vanished)

a shred of flowy fabric deep green like a copse stuck to a broken mirror long since clouded invisible to the eye it moves between the poet's fingers his wrists adorned by bracelets of crimson and as he mouths his final words upon the threshold Erato grants a closing kiss   © Matthias Geh, 18th … Continue reading #270 (vanished)


#225 (a dark crimson)

delicately threading words her feet constantly pushing down the pedals the loom is never still steadily creating verse by verse the basket overflowing yet she does not cease not even in her sleep she weaves the yarn stirring in a dream with bleeding fingers aching feet yet she does not cease to chave her flesh … Continue reading #225 (a dark crimson)