Photo of the artist Ved Buens Ende

Rememberance Of Things Past

Ved Buens Ende


This sweetness
That surrounded us
And bled with us

We touched it
And it smelt far worse than weeds

I swarm, deserted away
Like glass, warm and as fevers,
I am death...

Witches painted me,
Like the mysteries created me
I were woven into blasphemies

I swarm, deserted away
Like glass, warm, and as fevers,
I am as flame
I am death...
For I, I weave our blasphemies

Witches painted me,
Like the mysteries created me
Like where the poets breathe,
I were woven into blasphemies

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