You're St.Peter's, I am Moscow. Between us lies the open road, laced with villages and pastures.
Shall we dance? Of just compare, histories that aren't immaculate?
You were sieged in snow for years and I was burnt alive.
You're surrounded by the frozen, secret tears, I'm the place where Margarita flies.
Woland's King, and so is pain, but who's to say it's true? Rebellion flows like blood in veins, dictatorship is in there, too.
YOU ARE READING
n.i.m.b.u.s.
Poetrywords that pour from the veins of the sky. a collection of joyous, soul-crushing melodies, set to the tune of the desert-seaside breeze. //#539 in Poetry [2016.07.10]
