It’s a broken place after all.
The bodies roll,
the lights stumble,
a cry from long resonance calls for a radioactive poison.
Walking down the roads where yearning floats like pink wine and curved eyes,
I have found a stop.
Why do homes change when we need it the most?
An old cave,
a dazed mind on a fatal frail.
The nomads are the lovers that we deserve.
The ascent swings in wild compulsion.
The days must end when the smile comes.
I have found a soul in silent devastation.

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Photograph: Jenny Cipoletti