11 Mar




The words are unexpected as the time of the fading line.

It wounds me through the pages of my breathing, alone.

It chases me, dancing around the lobe of my darken eyes.

And the light, that sparky line of something burning my eyes,

Spreads outside, outside of my reason,

As if it were nothing else but a brief encounter of rays.


Weeping deeply and softly,

Changes one’s body, one’s figure and one of nothing:

Nothing rests as before.

No summer goes without a doubtful reason to survive.

No season goes without a flash of flesh.

No pieces of friction are melted onto to the days night.

No, no word is said nor heard just spoken in outmost silence.



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