It’s An Error Based Quest
A sun ore with no golden mean
Deictic fingertips pointing at wh-s
Forlorn as answers are dying of clarity
All we were left with were
Those windows whose sight was solely made of glass
And a lady with a bunch of beheaded tulips
Torn taken from this garden of Celan’s
Who no longer leans on a window sill
poem by Miroslava Odalovic
Added by Poetry Lover
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