feast in the arid land

crashing eyes
are in dense participation
of the crowd’s favorite
game of luck.

they anticipate the
coming of the one,
the image that has been
there from the beginning.

they are lured by
the antics of the worshipers,
pushed forward to the
altar of a nobody.



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not too far
not too close
we never bend
we never lose

the side of everything
nothing is forgotten
it is not a tragedy
it is not a bad ending

too soon i’ll be
the better part of me
too soon i’ll see
what’s best is going to be



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the constant motions of revelries

we fix the curly crusts
of the milky way.
the dust on your
hair looks like the silver
haze of my autumn morning.

we wander far from all
darkest evenings, and at a
lone distance are our shadows
prancing until the daylight.

we glamour for smooth touches.
our hands speak a monotony
of madness that only the
brisk hours can understand.

don’t we breathe their cruelty?
some of the things we remember
are the constant motions of revelries.



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i drop the stones
in the waters of my dream.
a wave of longing
entraps the underneath.

rural air whips
my shame and disease.
on many occasions are
the shattering of fragile and weak.



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The Tulips Tale

I’m thousand
miles away and
basking at the
beach is grayed.

I’ve a blasted
neighbor, knocking
the clay pots of
my tulips.

I hate
looking at this,
guarding my eyes
by shutting the
blinds of my windows,

the wild dogs
to scare,
to send away
the drunk man
in my garden.



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nothing but a daydream

the movements
of our hands cling
to the west of our boundaries.

we can never
swim in our ocean of

the alteration
of our every day is
nothing but a daydream.



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Pulled To A Chronic Room

Empty jump-seat, the absence of
a legroom; a crazy set-up of
gothic lanterns, scattered in
a private room. The eyesight
of one normal man, reduced to
some degree, where the borderline
to blindness hasn’t failed to fly.



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