by on October 31, 2014 :: 0 comments

Somniloquous window of my room
goes up to the zenith
of the frosted cloud.
My exiled door hangs like a cliff.
your face is hanging
on the cob-web of your city.
In that vertigo
husks of your presence
burn and fly
around my desire.

editors note:

Sweet satiation from a babbling sexomniac. – mh

Leave a Reply