It was the knife on monday. They say it was harsh, I say it was practical. Not as Tuesday. The rope took some minutes, the neck didn't break. Not as in the movies. The pills took even longer. Wednesday. I couldn't try anything else that day; you know that. For Thursday I had the car show planned, and the fire was beautiful. On Friday I took her to the Zoo, and she loved the tigers. Saturday night was the day for party, with the mob, and those so many holes made me feel sorry for her.
On Sunday I rested, on Sunday I healed her memory, for I loved and mourned for her. On Sunday I wrote this poem, I read it to her - and she loved it.
On Sunday I rested, on Sunday I healed her memory, for I loved and mourned for her. On Sunday I wrote this poem, I read it to her - and she loved it.
Um comentário:
Eu tenho uma estranha sensação sobre esse "poema"... mas de modo algum ele significa qualquer coisa pra mim. Apenas deixei os dedos escreverem sobre algo qualquer.
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