When the internal heat of somebeing inflames to the degree that it touches the cold existence surface;
the first dewdrop that trickles from that condensation is named poetry.
Roads that need two sidewalks as crutches, to extend, are a lame terminated roads.
farewells, all farewells, are a slow killing,
while a get-together is a death by overdose.
The horrific sounds, of some beings,
are just a quiet protest against the sense of the cosmos.
Isn’t the Earth itself, a prison!
Oh, people, we have a fortified atmosphere,
if we egress it without synthetic air, we die sniped in lungs,
and we have the oldest jailer in the history “gravity”
The little cute Spider
a friend of lonely people: prisoners, poor, prophets
the passionate, the witty in weaving everything into a wedding dress,
even the body of his prey,
when he was first killed,
his widow dressed the black, proclaiming a poisonous eternal revenge war, for her husband.
As you furrow my back with your fingernails, I grow.
A little bit time, just a little bit time,
to all this pain ends.
soon the pain will end,
to we begin the last pus’s march, without scars,
to wring out sun’s abscesses with a hunting clippers,
perhaps, then, it may come to us with something more radiant,
a second cosmic explosion, for example,
a new beginning, for races that be evolved with darkness,
after we have lost the march of light,
since the first crime under it.
As I am being furrowed with stilettos, I germinate.
a rusty water faucet, dripping all night, irreparable, and no other water source but it.
The moment we feel that we are grown,
we begin to fall,
not as a fruit,
but as a burning meteor.
Stories told by witches to children,
when they grew up, they did not become its heroes,
but its victims.
The genuine transfiguration of beings and objects,
appears in a painful perfection, when they disappear.
what the pain is!
a thin junky wedding ring, in a widow’s finger.
Things are disappearing,
beings, people, places, streets, time;
our things, which we love, consecutively disappear,
we ask about it once or twice,
then, when we get used to their disappearance,
we stop asking.
And what the forgetfulness?
the ability to own a cemetery keys in the ground of nothingness.
Look in the mirror, you see two persons:
your reflection and someone else in the eye pupil,
your reflection sees you and himself in the pupil of your eyes,
only that who is inhabiting in the pupil sees both of you without seeing himself,
that is you.