In this hermitage
where the roofs cling to the moss

The vines
are extensions of myself
that cover the depth
of a moving spring

Loneliness is bent
washing her feet
and it’s the moon she sips
inside her cupped hands

The connection breaks

I’m out in the open

There is no hermitage

I search
for myself.

c.r. Malintha Perera 2015

 

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