Poetic Justice

Krísuvíkurvatn and the fog merge together

Written by little g.


No need to add drama to your walk.
Watching you feel your way down the street
promotes divine healing.

Standard reporting is all that’s necessary,
the gathering crowd restless,
the obligatory murmur of discontent,
you somehow oblivious to it all.

I could make your eyes green, I suppose,
and call you as I like.

O, queen of my dreams,
your royal progress leads only
to the wooden block,
the metal blade.

Steer yourself my way.
It’s a fine hand holds the crown.

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