By A. Molotkov

A boy dies, a girl bleeds.
A stranger brings a head on a plate.
You forget your keys.
Every time, love turns to dust in your hands.
Reason hangs loose on a thread of logic.
Harmony calls, so close you can feel
its sharp edge in yourself.
Locked in us, years melt. Eyes
close every time they open.

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A. Molotkov

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