a writer’s relic.

i lead my finger down yesenin’s spine. it is old cracked torn fragile, just like the words inhabiting it. this hand-me-down soul smells like home still. st. yesenin’s spine, relic of the protector of poets, maniacs and sad minds. i’ve kept it safe under my bed. in my hands, it shivers. unshielded.

and opening up to me, yesenin repeats his goodbyes.

just another book i sacrify to fill my empty mind. going through, for the nth time, i stop.

there seems to be his blood under my nails.

i’m trying to write again.

#prose poetry #yesenin #writing #dark