The
light arose
as foliage
bouquets of tender dawns
resting my head
on your breasts – hard as clouds
half asleep
chasing empty horizons
for the only flower
that droops its stem
to face the total stillness
of a silent earth.
The
light arose
as foliage
bouquets of tender dawns
resting my head
on your breasts – hard as clouds
half asleep
chasing empty horizons
for the only flower
that droops its stem
to face the total stillness
of a silent earth.
My creator
has abandoned me
the hands that spun these
verses
are now caressing
night axioms and
mysticisms,
the poet left
me
a poem
sunken
somewhere lost
in the motions
of the automatic world,
I am the victim
a spirit
that occupies briefly
whatever soul
treads these words
but, alas
ultimately doomed
to perish
as your
eyes
approach
my final
sigh.
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