Thursday, April 07, 2016

- NaPoWriMo # 16

This compulsion to become an ageless angel,
without a death in which to enjoy myself,
without pity for my name
or for my weeping bones.

Who does not possess a fire, a death,
a fear, something horrible,
even when it has feathers
even when it carries a smile

Sinister delirium to love a shadow.
A shadow does not die.
My love
only embraces what flows
like lava from hell:
a silent loggia,
ghosts with sweet erections,
priests made of froth,
and above everything else angels
beautiful angels like blades
that rise at night
to devastate hope.

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