Friday, September 30, 2016

Wind Son





Wind Son


They arrived,
invaded blood
smelling 
like wet feathers.
You feed fear
and loneliness
as if they were
two small animals
lost in the desert.
They’re here to burn 
the Age of Sleep.

Your life
is a constant goodbye.
You hold on
like a snake that’s only itself
when there’s nobody looking.
You cry, open
the jewelry box 
of your desires and you’re richer
than night. But there’s so much isolation
that your words commit suicide.

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