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.