They say that the hurricane changed THE COLORS OF MY SKIN
but I don’t know the reason,
I hold some confused theories
between the exits to the light and too much darkness.
I will return to bathe with lava when the rains move away from may the rains,
when the photograph tells me
(((That’s you, look at you,
inexperienced,
without present or future, don’t be afraid! that mistakes have always, existed)))
and the photograph will bleach slightly until it becomes a piece of paper any paper and I’ll bring it to my face with tears of blood and I’ll scream until the night when the odyssey is over,
I will be silent again and my body will say everything again.
The new color will also keep a meaning and the people will say
that winter changed the texture of my skin but I will refuse the eruditions, as a being of silences, and abstract speech, with fire, with ash, with aromas and digital clock.
YOU ARE READING
When I close my door
PoetryI dedicate this work to all the friends who are left in the heart. To all those who love me. In When I close my door, a social interest and a renunciation for the sake of communication is explicit, the subject destroys his exterior, recomposes himse...
