A corner with delusions
forgotten,
the roaring of a storm
that is still so far,
the absolute chaos
in every crossroad.
Then...
nothing.
Other hands interlaced
remember us the silence,
a hammer hitting
over the resignation
which knitted
our weakness.
What do you want me to do?
Nothing.
We are the failure
of a missed whisper,
gazes
in exile
of dreams,
the naivety that pushes us
to the abyss of the blame.
There´s nothing left.
You want to fly again,
having back the postcard
from that eternal travel.
We touch the moon
and the hell right after.
The wings would be ripped
in a moment of insecurity.
You are...
No ash,
no pain.
Nothing.
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