I live in the emancipated pigeons of verbs
that bellow or are silent, tattooing my spaces
with the ancient wisdom that climbs up my tired back.
I sneak into the senile mind of my illusions.
But what if I get lost
in the intricate abyss of the flesh's twilight?
Who would pour
the pearls of their anguish over me,
or light the alter candle
of my perennial memories?
Whose Nannie would sleep with me
on the dismay of my wandering soul,
my bed of withered magnolias?
If I shout into the wind,
the leaves of anguish are shaken.
Wind stirs the nests of disenchantment and anger.
The storms of the past are subjected
to the bluster of my echo,
and the indelible present among
the branches of my tree.
I shelter myself within carmine
so as not to lose sight of the dawn.