TB ( / Encino, California, USA)


I want to take into my arms, touching softly,
A tortured soul,
And to listen to it's low voice confession,
To it's words, twisted with grief, And to the secrecy of it's dreams,
that never came true,
To the moaning mixed with breathing,
To the music of shed tears,
To the thaw, that has come a bit late. I'll pour out like blood my emotions
All over it's wounds, the unbearable injuries
Which sprouts out like cruel weeds.
And they will drown in my hands. But the soul, renovated by me
And undergoing a lavation,
Will heal and become a different one... But this is something one shouldn't thank for.

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