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Spaghetti knots

hole through

look upon you

like for lost keys

and the open wound above

that forever changes its bandages

but still bleeds sun daily

until that will go too

into nothing and nothing again

for i throat silence

instead of a voice which

has heard too much

like that a voice cannot listen

from bodies borrowed from others

forgotten and unseen

who invented words like loneliness

to feel if others felt like they feel

but only heard echoes

in themselves



who once thought

mouths shouldn’t be shaped

like caves

but then continued on

not writing poetry

but buying property

while the ceaseless ceiling

continues to burn to black


About kacperniburski

I am searching for something in between the letters.


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