DIANA MARIN

Tag: poem

  • A poem: Afterlife

    I taste the blood of dehydrated lips,
    admire the inadequately plucked eyebrows
    above vapid black circles surrounded by
    red on translucent white.
    Dark hair, itchy like rope
    against my neck,
    frozen hands trembling,
    features particularly thin:
    I forgot how to live,
    yet I laugh at my own sin.

  • Shiver

    That tender memory
    of snowdrops,
    dreamy air,
    and spring dew
    made my world shiver this morning
    once again.

  • status quo

    The universal shift of focus
    from being to seeming
    permeates our age of confusion.