Rimbaud And I Poem by L.B. Temuco

I die slowly
writing
it cannot be helped
the future
being no longer lit
the tongue hangs
from its blackened branch
irreparably bleeding
today
language lied
as it always does
Vitalie is dead at seventeen
never casting a shadow
memories damned
by distant deceit
grow never tired
of penury and pain
in these half-closed eyes
death delays for a minute
the merest mystery
the intoxication
the rumours
of your death, too