Image: © Lara Lambelet
Author: Lara Lambelet
My senses covet the scent of her breasts.
They are now faintly dampened by my tears.
A hindrance to my unwholesome desire, the pungent wreath tantalizes my soul.
People are sad in the metro.
Tinted in blue, white, sold in lots.
Vague and wandering looks;
don’t predict anything good.
Words bang and choke behind the fabric.
This is the new gregarious instinct; a muzzle for the individual.
It veils the softness of a smile brought to a child;
disarmed in the masked procession of obedient beings.