Four of them, four tattoos
in the dream, riding my back
like the four horsemen of the
apocalypse.
Category: poetry reading
Papercut, Poetry by Rodolfo Po III
And suddenly, I can no longer sing
our song anymore.
Its rhythm has lost its way from me,
the heartstrings have been plucked too often,
and my mouth can not utter
the words and lyrics
I had once marked on your lips.
WILDsound Festival 