Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Walking on the Limbo of Lost Words




Walking on the Limbo of Lost Words


the lighthouse of the indefinite
trafficking voices of absence,
skeleton walls smuggle freedom.

My country: a poem under an illegal shade.
A sun full of cameras rides
my skin like ghosts
who claim what is rightfully theirs.

I lead the echoes of my flight
to a heart masked
as theatrical delirium,
my wrinkled memoir  
dancing to Etta Jones’s 
Don’t go to Strangers.

I touch your lips
with my revolutionary blood
and leave my confession  

on your cinnamon eyes.

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