really, when you pick a slowly murdered remembrance out from the closet – there, there where you hide the clothes of infancy, of, of the little lead soldiers and ballerinas, of, of the white ponies and trucks, when, when you were still in love, like the morning – you find the paralyzed turn, turn, your life took, out of a wool your mother made, when, when you shuffled the fate’s cards and decided, decided, to leave the party of the fatuous and follow, follow the siren, the siren, of silence, of silence, of silence.

Ricardo Andrade
mefeedyoume 2014
for dverse

http://dversepoets.com/2014/01/30/form-for-all-prosepoetry/

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