Thursday, December 24, 2015

Rafael Patino

Every time he turns his eyes
He finds you even more beautiful,
Were it not for the silence,
The fallen mask
Would renounce to its absent identity

With what face shall I meet dawn?
With the reward of being this absent being?

Nausea, rictus, clots
Unable to reach our still haste . . .

We keep swimming lakes of tin
Mating with the night
Mangled by this breeze of being
We shall be vegetal aromas,
Darkness will drink us with its mouth

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