Revolving / poem by : Zazie

By : Zazie /Evi Moechel


The realm of bluish moisture
surrounding the spoken word.
Engulfed by flurry thoughts like disobeying spider legs failing their loot.
Or many loots.

The storm arises after nights of despair and qualm
bringing relief by tossing the impossible future toward the offended soul.
Vortices are helpful opening new places for dying fish.

No need for spouts or pistols.
Lovely abyss here and there while revolving again and again
to discover the ultimate tresor of gold.

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