Originally posted by
two_grey_rooms at
postWe walk in the cedar groves
intending love, no one is here
but the suicides, returned
in the shapes of birds
with their razor-blue
feathers, their beaks like stabs, their eyes
red as the food of the dead, their single
iridescent note,
complaint or warning:
Everything dies, they say,
Everything dies.
Their colours pierce the
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